Chapter 59: Palace Drama
The worst thing is comparing yourself to others.
The lively scene over there only made the loneliness on this side stand out more. Since it was an offline event, the contrast was all too obvious—some people just couldn’t handle it well.
Then, Tide happened to see something when throwing out trash: a few of the event’s standees had been tossed into the garbage bin, clearly snapped in half before being thrown away.
It was obviously done with malice.
Tide took a picture and sent it to the fan support group’s admin, then posted it in the Weibo group chat, furiously typing: “This is way too much!”
[??]
[Definitely broken by someone. The standees are plastic—they wouldn’t snap like that just from falling.]
[The “Wishing” station was giving those out for free. Probably someone sneaked in to take advantage.]
[Wishing Station should set some rules for picking up merch—like having bought R.E, or a Super Topic level of 5 or above. That would at least filter people a bit.]
[+1]
[If you don’t even like them, why go collect merch only to break it? I don’t get that mentality. I even avoid stores endorsed by celebs I dislike.]
[A lot of our fans are first-timers chasing idols, but this kind of thing is pretty common in the fandom. Some people even pretend to be fans just to steal opposing fan support—eat and drink for free, then still badmouth the idol. Super disgusting.]
[Wait, what?]
[Like when Zhaolin recorded Happy Big Saturday, they prepared desserts for the fans waiting outside, but fans from another group came and pretended to be ours to take the treats.]
[…That’s too much.]
[Not to be gross, but this kind of anti is like a deep-closet fan.]
[Ugh]
[Whoever broke the standee, may they have bad luck in everything they do from now on.]
[Once Moon makes his debut, there’ll definitely be anti-fan stunts (confirmed), so maybe we should prepare a secret signal only real fans know—just in case.]
[How about the support color? I want to wear matching clothes when going to offline events. That way people will instantly know I’m a Tide. Just imagining it makes me so happy.]
When it came to support colors, Yue Zhaolin’s official support color was still being voted on — since his fanbase was huge and many colors had been proposed, a tournament-style voting system had been adopted.
They were now in the final round of the showdown.
The current top three:
Silver — representing moonlight;
White with a hint of pale yellow — reminiscent of the moon itself;
Blue-silver — the color of tides being drawn up by the moon’s gravity.
While Yue Zhaolin was absent, the Tide weren’t idle either — they were actively promoting their favorite colors in the Super Topic, buzzing with excitement.
— Though the fan circle as a whole might not seem particularly mature, compared to those fandoms that go from zero to overdrive in a few days and then instantly become “done and dusted,” this one felt much more lively and authentic.
The overall fan experience was better.
At the venue, the admin of “Moonlight-wishing” raised her voice to announce that they’d be checking purchase records or Super Topic level before handing out the merch.
The Tides present didn’t mind at all — they didn’t consider it a harsh requirement.
Still, there were a few people who clearly got the hint, looked uncomfortable, and quietly stepped out of the line without making a scene.
After collecting merch from several different support stations and waiting a little longer, someone spotted movement near the ticket check:
“Hey, are they starting ticket check-in?”
Xu Mingmei: “Ticket check-in!”
For the second performance, Xu Mingmei still hadn’t been lucky enough to draw a ticket — but Peng Tao, armed with her mighty bank account, had.
This was someone who’d never spent a cent on a celebrity before, but when she finally did, it was five figures right off the bat. Terrifying.
Xu Mingmei grabbed Peng Tao’s hand and gazed at her solemnly: “Sis… you know what to do…”
Burn every detail of the second stage into your brain!
“I’ve got this,” Peng Tao replied with a grave expression, shouldering her mission as she walked toward the check-in line.
—
Inside the Starlight Building—
Twelve teams, a total of sixty trainees, had already changed into their outfits, had their hair and makeup done, and were now nervously waiting for the second performance round to officially begin.
The performance Crane Bell was scheduled third in the lineup, following the vocal stages “Letting Go” and “Melatonin.”
There were four groups total. With introductions, performances, and mentor feedback included, each group took around half an hour—meaning Group A of “Crane Bell” would have a decent amount of time on stage.
Yue Zhaolin looked at himself in the mirror and gave the silver-white ends of his hair a quick shake. The styling looked amazing—but it was absolutely scalp-tugging.
His short hair was real, but the long strands were all extensions. To create a clean high ponytail effect, they’d used tons of clips hidden in the crown piece to secure it.
It felt like he was carrying a weight on his head.
This time, both his eyebrow shade and lip color were lighter than in the first round. It was just the right kind of subtle for the camera—and perfectly suited his character for this stage.
Suddenly, Yue Zhaolin thought of something:
“Oh, right. Sister, can I take a selfie?” He wanted to stock up on selfies to share with fans later if he had the chance.
“Go ahead.”
Yue Zhaolin tried but realized he wasn’t very good at taking selfies in the mirror—no matter how he moved the phone, it blocked his face.
“Zhaolin, if you hold it like this…”
A nearby staff member reached out to help, then paused mid-motion upon remembering they were being filmed. She instinctively pulled back, then hesitated and reached out again.
Yue Zhaolin also instinctively reached out—and just as suddenly, remembered the difference in their genders, so he tried to hand her the upper edge of the phone instead.
“Huh?”
She lifted her hand.
He lifted his.
And just like that, the two of them ended up acting out an impromptu round of shadowboxing—a full-on Wing Chun sparring session through the air.
This round of “sparring” was just too funny—Yue Zhaolin couldn’t help but burst into laughter. Maybe it was the light-colored hair, but his features looked especially soft and gentle when he smiled.
He turned to the camera in the room with a grin: “Brother, did you catch that on film?”
He wanted to save it to show the Tides.
Yue Zhaolin wasn’t sure why, but lately he’d had a strong urge to share things—but only with the Tide. Anything interesting, he just wanted them to see.
Beside him, Chu Li asked, “What are you laughing at?”
After hearing the story, Chu Li offered some friendly guidance. With a few tries, Yue Zhaolin managed to get a few fairly decent selfies.
Chu Li said, “The audience is already entering. We should head to the standby room.” After all, recording the reactions in the idol standby room was a must-have for these shows.
“Alright.”
The entire Group A of “Crane Bell” gathered and headed to the standby room. Melatonin Groups A and B were already inside.
Even though they’d all seen each other’s outfits during rehearsals, seeing Yue Zhaolin fully dressed in his complete ancient-style look still stunned everyone. The compliments began immediately.
“Wow, your group’s styling is amazing. Ancient aesthetic forever reigns supreme.”
“Your abs are looking good too.”
After exchanging a few polite words, everyone sat down and turned toward the large screen that had just lit up.
Li Ying was backstage, waiting for the crew’s cue to go on. The Letting Go groups were also waiting. The audience seats were now completely filled.
Soon, Li Ying stepped onto the stage to give the opening remarks, then segued into introducing Letting Go. Groups A and B came on together to greet the audience.
Then, the performance began.
Whether it was by design or mischief on the part of the production team, just like in the first round, the show kicked off with an extremely difficult vocal stage for the second round too.
And in the standby room, what they were hearing was the raw, unedited version of the vocals.
After listening for a bit, Yue Zhaolin was like:
“……”
How should I put this…?
Meng Yu from Group B was doing his best to sing, but his voice was too thin, and the outcome… left much to be desired.
The overall effect—
Well, it was even more entertaining than “Dead Leaf Butterfly” from the first performance round.
It was so off-key that it became unintentionally comedic—perfect as an alarm ringtone.
You’d laugh yourself awake.
In comparison, the next group—“Melatonin” featuring Fu Xunying—felt like a chorus of celestial beings. It was like divine music clearing your ears.
Just then, a staff member came over and quietly reminded, “Zhaolin, your group should start getting ready.”
“Got it.”
The entire Group A of “Crane Bell” stood up and began heading backstage to wait for their turn. But halfway there, Mao Ding suddenly let out a sharp gasp.
“What’s wrong?”
Mao Ding reached behind him to touch his back, then winced again. “Something’s poking me. I didn’t feel it before, but after a few steps, it’s getting sharper and itchier?”
A nearby staffer froze for a second—their mind flashing back to the “palace drama” sabotage from past seasons, where people had hidden stones in other contestants’ shoes.
Could it be happening again this year…?
“Let’s go backstage first.”
Once they reached the waiting area, they started to undo his costume for inspection. But the Miao-inspired costume had too many layers and accessories, and before they could finish checking, the program had already moved on to “Crane Bell.”
Mao Ding was sweating buckets from anxiety.
Yue Zhaolin glanced at the stage and immediately said, “Put your costume back on and go up with us to greet the audience.”
Mao Ding, ears ringing from nerves, asked, “But what about the performance…”
“I’ll buy us some time.”
Yue Zhaolin didn’t want their group’s performance to be affected—especially not by something like this. He turned to the staff and said, “Sister, please tell the director…”
…
Just before this group took the stage, Peng Tao’s heart leapt—the intro mentioned something ancient-style. Could this be the group Yue Zhaolin was in?
She and Xu Mingmei had seen tons of online “spoilers,” but the songs never matched.
So each time a new stage was announced, Peng Tao felt like she was opening a mystery box—guessing whether Yue Zhaolin was in the group or not. It was thrilling in a completely chaotic way.
Actually, an ancient-style theme wouldn’t be bad either…
Just as she was thinking that, two teams stepped onto the stage—all with tall figures, hair tied up, dressed in elegant, traditional-style outfits.
Peng Tao’s eyes locked onto Yue Zhaolin like she had a built-in GPS. Her eyes went wide like bronze bells.
What… is this?!
Clad entirely in white, Yue Zhaolin stood out brightly among the crowd. Under the stage lights, his silver-white hair cascaded like moonlight with every step he took.
His outfit was perfectly tailored, highlighting his proportions. The waist wrap cinched his frame, making him look both slim and powerful.
His shoulder cape was shaped like lightweight armor—not overly flashy, but giving off a deadly elegance. Over his narrow sleeves was a layer of sheer fabric that flowed down to his calves.
His silver hairpiece and accessories were sharp-edged and beautifully designed. Combined with his hair color, they instantly gave off an aura of untouchable nobility.
Yue Zhaolin held the sword reversed, resting the blade along the back of his arm, his gaze lowered slightly in a composed expression.
Human? Demon? Immortal?
The sweep of his eyes felt like a wind spell—and Peng Tao nearly blacked out from the sheer beauty.
From the stunned silence of the audience burst a raw, unfiltered cry—not from technique, but from pure emotion:
“Holy f*ck—”
It was like a mental dam had been broken.
“Yue Zhaolin! Why didn’t you warn me you dyed your hair?! Do I mean nothing to you?! Who are you trying to seduce looking this good?!”
“AaaaaaAAHHH!!”
“It’s white hair—it’s white hair!!”
“Immortal Lord, it’s me! Your beloved little disciple! I am your tribulation on the path of loveless cultivation! Heaven wants us to fall in love—did you forget?!”
“Broad shoulders, tiny waist, and a perky butt all at once—Yue Zhaolin, are you a seduction demon or what…”
“Immortal Lord, step on me!”
“Shizun—!”
Because the venue was large, Yue Zhaolin couldn’t clearly hear most of the shouting from the audience. But just his luck—that one particularly drawn-out, suggestive title reached him loud and clear.
The cold, composed expression he had carefully maintained?
Gone. Instantly.
He cracked a smile—and with it, a completely different kind of feeling surfaced. Let’s just call it: “Dream-girl syndrome relapse.”
Peng Tao took a deep breath—oxygen levels felt dangerously low.
More and more chaotic lines kept popping up from the crowd. Even PD Li Ying couldn’t help but laugh.
“Members of Crane Bell, can you feel the audience’s passion?”
“Yes!” the group responded enthusiastically.
Li Ying lifted the mic and guided the flow of the segment:
“Then let’s start with Group A—say hello to the Starlight Producers in the audience, alright?”
The moment Yue Zhaolin lifted his mic, the audience fell silent in an instant.
He looked toward each section of the crowd and smiled, his tone gentle:
“Hello everyone, I’m Yue Zhaolin from the Crane Bell group. Long time no see.”
“AAAAHHHH—!!!”
“BABYYY!!”
The camera zoomed in on Yue Zhaolin’s face, capturing his expressions. The crowd erupted into deafening cheers once again—and the standby room turned into chaos as well.
“Yue Zhaolin is so damn handsome.”
“What’s scary is that he doesn’t even photograph well—he’s way hotter in real life. When he walked past me, I literally had to hold my breath.”
“Divine visuals. Literal god-tier face.”
After Yue Zhaolin finished his self-introduction, he smoothly passed the mic to the next teammate. One by one, Chu Li, Orleans, Mao Ding, and Shu Yang all took their turns.
Then, during Group B’s introductions, Mao Ding, who had been standing quietly off to the side, hurriedly exited the stage.
As planned, the production team gave the audience a quick explanation:
“There’s a small issue with the music. We apologize—can everyone wait a few minutes?”
Who would say no?
Yue Zhaolin was still on stage.
With the music delayed, he could interact with the crowd—for the Tide fandom, this was like winning the lottery.
Someone called out:
“Yue Zhaolin, you’re so handsome—!”
At first it was just one voice, but soon it swelled—all the Tide members joined in the chant.
Yue Zhaolin tilted his head slightly, as if he couldn’t hear clearly:
“You said… rap?”
“No! We said handsome—!”
“You said… eat tofu?”
He threw out a completely random phrase again, but on the big screen, the faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips was impossible to miss.
Ah.
Did the Tide members in the audience need any more clues?
Of course not. Yue Zhaolin was doing it on purpose.
“The Malicious Antics of a Catboy Idol”