Chapter 57: Costume
The costumes for the Crane Bell group were all in traditional Chinese style, but the production team put varying levels of effort into the outfits depending on the trainee.
Take Mao Ding, Shu Yang, and Orleans for example—their outfits were off-the-rack pieces purchased by the show. As long as they generally fit the theme and style, that was good enough.
Then there was Yue Zhaolin—his costume was a rush custom order.
The designer was given less than two weeks, but when Yue Zhaolin saw the finished product that the staff brought over, he was immediately stunned by how beautiful it was.
It was a traditional-style outfit, but with a fantasy twist on the usual ancient designs.
The main color of the costume was white, though not a pure white—it was a soft, pearly white with a smooth, gentle finish. The sleek, narrow sleeves added a sharp contrast to the otherwise gentle tone.
The outer layer was made of a fabric with subtle patterns and a graceful drape. The density of the woven design varied just right, and under the light, the surface moved like flowing water.
Below the standing collar was a matching toggle button designed in the shape of an auspicious cloud.
Further down was a belt about the width of a palm, with a design of white cranes flying through clouds. Below the belt hung a jade ornament with blue and silver tassels.
“There’s also a yunjian here,” a staff member pointed out.
“The flowing ribbons on each side of the yunjian have been replaced with sheer fabric and fixed to your sleeves to give a more ethereal effect.”
The entire outfit had a consistent aesthetic—it had both a cool, celestial elegance and the flair of someone ready to draw a sword and fight.
“Wow, it’s so pretty,” Yue Zhaolin’s eyes sparkled as he gave a sincere compliment.
His tone and expression had a strangely adorable charm to them, and the staff around him were amused and smiled. “As long as you like it.”
“Want to try it on?”
Yue Zhaolin gave the white gauze a touch—it was incredibly soft. Even though it was secured in place, he figured that once he started moving, it might still wrap around him.
“I’ll try it on first.”
“Right,” said a staff member.
“If there’s anything that needs adjusting, you can let us know.”
Details like sizing adjustments could still be made before the second performance.
“Okay.”
Yue Zhaolin first put on the matching white undershirt and pants, then the outer layers.
He thought the outfit would be easy to wear, but was immediately stumped by the toggle button at the collar—the loop was small, and he failed to fasten it several times.
As for the final effect after he put everything on…
It was even better than expected.
There were already cameras rolling for this part. The staff had originally planned to say something flattering, but the way their mouths hung open in the camera frame accidentally created a different kind of variety show moment.
Knock knock.
It was Chu Li outside the door, coming to get Yue Zhaolin. Their group’s rehearsal time in the main studio was coming up.
“Zhaolin, are you ready?”
The door opened from the inside. Chu Li instinctively looked in—and his mind went blank with a loud buzz.
His first reaction was:
Thank god Yue Zhaolin won’t be acting in historical idol dramas anytime soon, or I’d be out of a job.
If the endgame of an ordinary person is the civil service exam, then the endgame of an actor in the Chinese entertainment industry is historical idol dramas—whether young, middle-aged, or old.
The historical idol drama market is overcrowded, but looking good in ancient costume is highly selective.
An actor has to be lean, with a long neck and broad shoulders.
But nowadays, that didn’t matter.
With the global aesthetic standard declining in recent years, domestic casting became all about capital backing. As long as you had traffic, acting skills and appearance didn’t matter.
If someone was short or had a 5:5 body ratio, they could wear platform shoes.
If their neck was short, you gave them collarless outfits.
If their shoulders weren’t broad enough, shoulder pads would do the trick.
The entire production process had become a formula—same makeup, same costumes, and scripts that only changed in name but not in substance.
Then there was Yue Zhaolin.
They were just in the dressing room, but everything about him—his face, his figure, the overall vibe—was perfectly in sync. It was like ancient costume was something Yue Zhaolin had been born to wear.
It gave Chu Li a serious sense of crisis.
Chu Li smiled and complimented him, “Wow, you look amazing in that outfit. I’m wearing all black, so together we’re like that cold medicine—Black and White.”
They weren’t competitors for now, so it was still important to maintain good relations.
Yue Zhaolin had no idea what the other was thinking. Out of politeness and reciprocity, he returned the compliment and praised Chu Li’s outfit too.
“Let’s go to the studio.”
Before every performance, there was a rehearsal session. Any PDs or mentors who were free would attend, filming reaction and commentary shots to build up tension in the final cut.
Last time, PD Li Ying had a schedule conflict and only the five mentors were present. This time, Li Ying was available, so the show brought all six of them in to record early.
For an average trainee, getting a positive comment from Li Ying basically meant their time in the spotlight had come.
Yue Zhaolin and Chu Li left the room together.
In the hallway, they ran into several other trainees who were also on their way to the studio to wait for rehearsal.
From their reactions, Yue Zhaolin could already imagine how the Tide would react later.
=v= Heh.
…
By the time Yue Zhaolin and Chu Li arrived at the studio, the previous group—Group A performing Melatonin—was still on stage.
Yue Zhaolin listened from offstage for a bit. The highlight of the song—the Spanish section—had been given to Fu Xunying, and his pronunciation was very pleasant to hear.
Fu Xunying had also dyed his hair.
It was a partial dye—just a few strands in the bangs, one behind the ear. Combined with the studs on his outfit, he gave off a cool, sexy vibe.
A real head-turner.
When Fu Xunying’s performance ended, Yue Zhaolin clapped along with the staff.
Hearing the applause, Fu Xunying looked toward the audience. The moment he locked eyes with Yue Zhaolin, he stepped down from the stage and headed straight in his direction. He looked him over again and said, “This outfit… pretty strong.”
“Strong?”
What kind of compliment was strong?
Fu Xunying: “……”
Ever since he had chosen honesty over pride last time, he had completely lost any dignity in front of Yue Zhaolin and was constantly getting teased.
Looking at Yue Zhaolin’s eyes that held a playful, half-smile, Fu Xunying gave a reluctant snort and muttered, “Fine. You look good, okay?”
Yue Zhaolin nodded in satisfaction. He heard the director calling for the Crane Bell group to get ready and turned around.
“We’re up next. Gotta go.”
“Crane Bell, Group B, take your positions.”
“Got it.”
The five-member team moved into place.
In the audience sat not only PD Li Ying and the five mentors, but also trainees from other teams.
As the music for Crane Bell started, Chu Li—with bells hanging from the tassels of his sword—led Mao Ding and Shu Yang into the first part of the choreography.
A few seconds later, the other duo—Yue Zhaolin and Orleans—entered the frame.
Yue Zhaolin had a signature move called the spinning sword thrust.
It started with a sword flourish in front of the body, followed by another behind the back, then drawing the sword, spinning his body in a full turn, and finishing with a forward thrust after raising one knee.
It was a move that demanded both speed and power. Yue Zhaolin had practiced it countless times and was skilled enough to do it with his eyes closed.
But this time, he messed up.
—The narrow sleeves and pants didn’t interfere with Yue Zhaolin’s dance moves, but the white gauze attached to the yunjian was starting to be a bit of a problem.
The gauze had gotten caught on the hilt of his sword.
Then came a sharp “riiip” sound.
The moment he heard it, Yue Zhaolin’s eyes widened, and he froze mid-move: “Wait—sorry—”
‘My outfit’s messed up!’
Ah, no, wait. That phrase just now—‘ My outfit’s messed up!’—was definitely because Rong Ruize’s ridiculous Taiwanese accent had gotten into his head.
Chu Li turned around when he heard the sound. “Eh?”
What just happened?
Only seconds after Yue Zhaolin spoke, the music cut off. Not only did staff rush over, but his groupmates did too.
Yue Zhaolin turned to the staff member responsible for his costume and explained, “It’s too light. The moment I raise my arms, it floats—and because the choreography is fast, it easily gets caught.”
Shu Yang, sharp-eyed, noticed that one of the gauze ribbons was now hanging by a thread from the yunjian.
Shu Yang said, “Maybe stitch it down in a few more places?”
Even though the gauze sleeves were a hassle, they looked amazing—delicate and ethereal, like a white-haired master from a fantasy novel.
Orleans offered another suggestion: “Or just remove the gauze and keep the shoulder mantle?”
The mantle alone was already intricate and refined.
Yue Zhaolin considered both their suggestions, then glanced at the groups still waiting for rehearsal.
“I’ll take it off for now. We can figure it out after the run-through.”
The yunjian came off easily. Yue Zhaolin handed it to a staff member, then picked up his sword again.
“Sorry, everyone. Let’s go again.”
Director: “Alright, Crane Bell, get ready.”
“Ding—”
The bell rang once more.
On stage, the five members of Crane Bell Group B resumed their dance.
Down below, PD Li Ying and the five mentors watched with differing, unreadable expressions.
Vocal mentor Jia Ge’s eyes lit up with excitement: “Who would’ve thought a trainee who hasn’t even debuted yet could deliver a performance like this? Impressive.”
One of the dance mentors, Ni Yanzhen—a Chinese-Korean mixed artist who debuted in a K-pop group—added, “Look at this group. Yue Zhaolin is clearly consciously striking visually pleasing poses.”
“I’m not saying that’s a bad thing—on the contrary, idols should have that awareness.”
Dancing isn’t just about power; it’s also about aesthetics.
The same movement, depending on the angle of the hand or the speed of a spin, can create a completely different texture.
As the music continued, PD Li Ying raised his voice slightly and said, “That’s why Yue Zhaolin is someone who thinks.”
“He intentionally works on refining his movements to make them look better, but without turning the performance into empty flair.”
Rap mentor Verse, who was wearing sunglasses indoors as usual, suddenly leaned forward. He reached across the female rap mentor sitting next to him to speak directly to Li Ying.
“PD, the third performance round is the mentor-collaboration stage, right? I want to choose Yue Zhaolin.”
Li Ying raised an eyebrow and smiled, replying, “You also want to pick Yue Zhaolin?”
The word also was subtle—but telling.
It meant that Li Ying had been considering Yue Zhaolin too.
Just like trainees want to ride on Li Ying’s popularity, Li Ying wanting to collaborate with Yue Zhaolin was a strategic move for attention as well.
He could be the wave that got overtaken by the next generation, or he could ride their momentum to rise again.
Ni Yanzhen laughed and chimed in, “So you all want to pick Yue Zhaolin? What about me and Nana then? Should we settle it with rock-paper-scissors?”
Nana was the other female rap mentor.
Verse said to Ni Yanzhen, “Don’t you have another gig in a few days? Maybe let those of us who’ll still be around have first pick?”
Ni Yanzhen’s group was about to have a comeback, so she had to return to Korea to promote with them.
But she didn’t back down at all. Smiling, she replied, “Exactly because I’m leaving, I need to secure some benefits for my future replacement.”
Li Ying asked, “Who’s taking your place?”
Ni Yanzhen carefully chose her words: “My senior from the same company—Actual’s Shao Meng. His manager said he’s available to sub in.”
Back when Yue Zhaolin first made a public appearance as one of the “royals,” it was by tagging along at an Actual music festival.
And Shao Meng? He was Actual’s most popular member.
—Previously, when Xingqiong Entertainment wanted to use Yue Zhaolin as a sacrifice, they had planned to bring in Shao Meng to replace Ni Yanzhen, hoping to pour gasoline on the fire.
Reigniting memories of “Yue Zhaolin was a royal,” and putting him on the same show with one of the supposed “victims” of that system was meant to provoke public outrage.
But the situation was different now.
Shao Meng still came—because he himself wanted to collaborate.
Whether it was praise or criticism online, as long as people were talking, it was better than silence.
Shao Meng’s fanbase had recently gone unusually quiet.
And silent unfollowing was far more dangerous than loud, dramatic exits—because no one knew what went wrong.
He badly needed to escape this slump.
So teaming up with Yue Zhaolin wasn’t just a coincidence—it was something he had actively fought for.
As for the bad blood between his fans and Yue Zhaolin’s fans?
So what?
Those who insisted on being “above it all” would never survive in the industry.
Besides—
Shao Meng might not even get the chance to collaborate.
Li Ying was still standing in his way.
Everyone wanted Yue Zhaolin.