Chapter 58: Support Stations
[Melon Group Eats Melon｜Li Tao (Rational Discussion): Our group banned that “30 million overnight fame” topic, but… no real follow-up either?]
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[Original Post]
RT.
Can we talk about it now?
It’s been almost half a month. The hype has died down, and discussion has cooled a lot. That 30 million felt like a stone thrown into water—just made a splash and that was it.
Aside from variety shows and behind-the-scenes clips, there’s been no real follow-up.
Isn’t that a little suspicious?
[1F] I was away for a bit—now that topic’s banned too?
[5F] Wasn’t it said before that the Li Tao group wouldn’t ban discussions?
[11F] But seriously, there has been no follow-up.
OK, fine, high-end luxury collabs take time, but even the sponsors from Starlight didn’t respond at all?
Not even a new ad read recorded?
[24F] Didn’t an industry insider leak info earlier?
This whole thing was a capital-backed god-making operation—
Capital created the illusion of sudden online fame, cyber-fans did cyber-spending, and it sucked in a bunch of low-IQ fans.
They really thought a Purple Star had emerged from C-ent.
[32F] This thread reeks of jealousy.
[39F] OP: Let’s have a normal discussion, no personal attacks. I’ll be monitoring the thread in real time.
[45F] Lol, OP pretending to be neutral?
With a thread title like that, don’t pretend otherwise.
[61F] Isn’t it obvious?
Why not go look at the view count of Episode 5?
It tanked—cut in half.
Looks like Xingqiong blew all their money buying back magazines,
So they didn’t have any left to renew bot purchases for the show’s streaming numbers.
LMAO.
[70F] You’re fantasizing again? There was no stage for Yue Zhaolin in Episode 5, and he had less than three minutes of screen time. What does the drop in view count have to do with him?
[77F] When you’re hyping him up, it’s “Lion King carrying the entire show.” Now that the view count is low, you switch the narrative? The Lion Chicken sure has a full-scale defense system, huh?
[82F] Even the derogatory nicknames are out now. OP, aren’t you going to protect your own thread? Not even pretending anymore? Fine, I’m reporting this.
[96F] The shady little trick in the thread title is obvious. The total was 37.5 million—how come you conveniently left out the 7.5 million at the end?
That 7.5 million might be twice the sales of your precious magazine.
[101F] Finally found a super obscure angle to mock Yue Zhaolin, huh? You’re clearly really triggered.
[115F] Haha, no matter how much the Lion Chicken denies it, the lack of follow-up is the clearest proof.
— This thread contained inappropriate content and has now been locked —
—
To Tide fandom, this kind of thread was just another typical “meltdown thread” on the Melon Group. They appeared so often that fans were well-versed in handling them.
As for the so-called “follow-up” that the forum was mocking, Tide wasn’t worried. What they were worried about was the artist, who was stuck in a closed-off filming program—completely unreachable, with no way to make a public appearance.
So no one really took the forum’s gossip and taunts seriously.
But in reality—
There was a follow-up.
—
The reach of the magazine went even further than expected. What came first wasn’t a brand endorsement—
But a film/TV offer.
Yue Zhaolin was reviewing his performance on stage when he received a call from Liu Li.
She asked with a smile in her voice, “Zhaolin, do you know Herland Gale?”
Yue Zhaolin, holding a sword and practicing moves while multitasking, replied, “The director of Breeders, right?”
Breeders—one of Hollywood’s most famous sci-fi action films.
In high school, teachers would play it in class for movie days.
“Yes.”
Previously, Herland’s assistant had already sent an invitation for a cameo role, but Liu Li had declined it at the time.
She had assumed that would be the end of it—
But surprisingly, they followed up by sending over a storyboard and character design personally drawn by Herland.
The film is set in the future. The protagonist plays a full-dive holographic game, only to find themselves trapped in a real world, traveling across different countries fighting monsters.
—Yue Zhaolin’s role is that of a young antique shop owner dressed in a traditional changpao,
A character embodying the Western fantasy of the “Oriental man”: mysterious, elegant, and seductive.
The cameo lasts less than a minute.
In the storyboard, Yue Zhaolin’s expression and pose strongly resemble the priest on the A-version cover of R.E.
Considering how vague the initial invitation was, it was probably just for the hype back then.
This time, though, they’d clearly taken the time to understand him.
“The company had a meeting and decided that taking this role would do you more good than harm.”
Even if the movie ends up being a flop.
—As long as the styling is striking, it doesn’t matter how bad Herland’s film turns out to be; on the contrary, it could become a stepping stone for Yue Zhaolin in the entertainment industry.
And the quality of the movie doesn’t really concern Yue Zhaolin—cameos don’t carry box office responsibility—but his scene could become the breakout moment.
Think even bigger: the person becoming more famous than the film.
Yue Zhaolin trusted the company’s judgment and asked, “Alright, roughly when would filming be? Should I take an acting workshop or something beforehand?”
He didn’t want to walk onto the battlefield unprepared.
“Mid to late May. Their team is going to film in Xijiang Ancient Town. There’s still time, so focus on the competition for now. The company will make all the arrangements.”
Today was only the last day of March.
“Okay.”
After hanging up, Yue Zhaolin exhaled softly, like he was letting out his excitement.
His first official acting role—he was genuinely looking forward to it.
But there was a more pressing issue in front of him—
The costume for the second performance.
Yue Zhaolin compared dancing with and without the cloud collar.
The white gauze added an airy, flowing effect, and without it, the visual impact would definitely be reduced.
Wait a second.
Yue Zhaolin’s eyes lit up. He went to find a staff member: “Sister, is it possible not to attach the ends of the white gauze to the sleeves? And maybe make them a bit longer?”
“Like an outer sheer layer over narrow sleeves?” he chose his words carefully.
“The gauze on the upper arms can be sewn into sleeves so it doesn’t hang too loosely, but the fabric underneath could be a single unstitched layer—so when I move, it flows like water sleeves.”
That way, it wouldn’t get in the way of the sword.
As Yue Zhaolin spoke, he gestured with his hands, eyes sparkling with excitement.
The staff member couldn’t help but smile. “I think I understand what you mean, but could you sketch a diagram just to make it clearer?”
“Sure.”
The staff added, “Oh right, Zhaolin—don’t wash your hair tomorrow morning. The color you want will require at least two rounds of bleaching, and your scalp’s natural oils can help protect it.”
Dyeing dark colors doesn’t require bleaching, but light shades—especially silver-white—need to be lifted past level 9.
“Got it.”
With the costume issue settled, Yue Zhaolin returned to the practice room feeling completely relaxed.
Chu Li asked curiously, “Costume’s finalized?”
Yue Zhaolin looked visibly content—completely different from earlier, when the outfit problems had him frowning in frustration.
“All good.”
Chu Li said, “Congrats, congrats.”
Actually, Chu Li had thought of a solution earlier.
“Turning a branch into a sword—it’s got a refined vibe and looks cool too. If you used a bamboo branch, it might snag a little, but not enough to damage your costume like a sword hilt would.”
He’d used this trick during the center position battle for the theme song, substituting a plum blossom branch for a sword.
Shu Yang, hearing that the topic had entered his area of expertise, immediately raised his hand: “If Zhaolin uses that trick, he’s definitely going to be accused of copying.”
Chu Li: “?”
Yue Zhaolin: “?”
If memory served, wasn’t that a common trope in film and TV already?
Shu Yang glanced at the room monitor and whispered quietly, “As long as you’re popular, even your hairstyle or makeup being similar to someone else’s can get you accused of plagiarism.”
So if Yue Zhaolin tried that move, it’d be seen as copying Chu Li’s idea.
Being in the same show and not avoiding overlap? That would be called intentional plagiarism.
That’s what people mean when they say the more famous you are, the more drama you attract.
Yue Zhaolin: “Hmm…”
After digesting this new information, Yue Zhaolin went back to refining the performance with his four groupmates.
The music played over and over again, and just like that, the day came to an end.
When the bell rang the next morning, everyone felt both utterly exhausted and like they still didn’t have enough time.
—
Practice Room.
Mao Ding took a couple gulps of water, cracked his wrist with a loud pop, and exhaled.
“Second performance is the day after tomorrow. After that, it’s the second elimination round.”
Time for judgment once again.
Shu Yang admitted honestly, “My ranking’s a bit shaky. Not sure I’ll make it past the next round.”
Orleans said, “You forgot—there’s still a bit of exposure next week. Qingpao’s Soda Festival.”
It was a reward from the sponsor Qingpao for contestants who survived the first round.
It was also a brand promo opportunity.
The list of attendees was originally supposed to be announced after the first elimination aired—
But because of that unexpected incident with Duanmu Hongxue, the episode had been delayed by a week.
With the promotional timeline set back, Qingpao couldn’t wait any longer and decided to announce early.
So Orleans had already seen it last night: On the promotional poster for the Qingpao Soda Festival, there was a super—massive—front-facing photo of Yue Zhaolin.
Center position.
Center with a capital C.
Orleans didn’t know if he’d debut, but if he didn’t, he was pretty sure he could ride Yue Zhaolin’s coattails for a good while.
That guy was gold.
And he wasn’t the only one thinking that.
Downstairs.
Yue Zhaolin suddenly tensed up.
“Choo—”
His sneeze was a little odd—there was no drawn-out buildup, just one short, sharp sound.
A staff member panicked. “You sneezed all of a sudden—do you need some cold medicine?”
Yue Zhaolin sniffed, catching a whiff of strong bleach: “Probably not a cold, but I can take something just in case.”
According to wisdom passed down from his grandma, it probably just meant someone was talking about him.
Yue Zhaolin took a moment to steady himself, then looked at his reflection in the mirror.
His hair was already bleached blonde—and he still had one more round of bleaching to go, followed by the actual dyeing.
Knock knock—
The person who entered was Cen Chi. His role this time was similar to what Fu Xunying did during the first performance—
Holding a handheld camera, interacting with Yue Zhaolin.
The fan community had been relatively calm lately, so the production team decided to stir things up by revisiting the once-popular “ChiYue Eternal” CP.
CP fans were thrilled.
But solo fans were not—leading to instant fan wars.
From the mirror, Yue Zhaolin could see that Cen Chi’s previously blonde hair had now returned to black.
They hadn’t interacted much recently, as Cen Chi had chosen to perform a K-pop routine—Indulged—and had been fully immersed in choreography.
He wanted to use this stage to showcase his professional skills, attract fans beyond the CP shippers, and reinforce his solo fanbase.
Even though they hadn’t had much overlap, Cen Chi had no intention of breaking the CP pairing.
This time, unlike before, the existence of CP fans did him more good than harm.
So he didn’t reject the task assigned by the show—he showed up with the camera.
Before arriving, Cen Chi knew exactly what he was doing, and he wasn’t exactly calm about it.
But Yue Zhaolin remained the same as ever.
The look in his eyes now was the same as it was at the start of filming—
Whether facing himself, Fu Xunying, or anyone else, it made no difference.
He simply didn’t care.
“…”
Cen Chi gave a small laugh, then quickly put on a friendly smile and started a conversation with Yue Zhaolin:
“…”
…
Time slipped by quietly—between hair bleaching, trying out hairstyles, costume fittings, and the final rehearsal.
Just one more night, and it would be the day of the second performance.
Inside the venue, the atmosphere was buzzing with activity.
Outside, it was just as lively.
Though ticket check-in hadn’t started yet, Yue Zhaolin’s biggest fan support station, Moonlight-wishing, had already set up a stunningly elaborate support wall.
They were also handing out all kinds of fan goodies—custom-printed postcards, bobblehead standees, wrist ribbons, and more.
And this time, Moonlight-wishing wasn’t the only support station present.
Several other support stations had shown up too, each with their own unique giveaway sets.
All the excitement centered around the Tide fandom, and where there’s joy for some, there’s bound to be frustration for others.