Trainee Ch.19

Chapter 19: Theme Song (6)

As the class with the fewest members, Class A made it the easiest to track everyone’s learning progress — there was zero chance of anyone just muddling through.

The universally acknowledged best dancer was Jin Xiheng, who had previously been a dance teacher, followed by Su Junzhe, a trainee who had returned from Korea. The three in the middle each had their own issues, making it hard to rank them definitively. But at the bottom, without a doubt, were Zhao Yifeng and Xu An.

And if one absolutely had to choose the worst dancer in Class A, that single spot would go to Xu An.

It wasn’t that Zhao Yifeng was a better dancer — he simply had a humorous and self-aware boldness. His expressions and movements were relaxed and open, like one of those sunny, popular college guys who could always make people laugh.

In contrast, Xu An was timid and lacked confidence, his face constantly looking so miserable it seemed like he might burst into tears at any second.

[I can’t even bring myself to laugh at Xu An anymore.]

[How are they not cracking up on stage hahahahaha]

[Prophet called it — Zhao Yifeng can’t hold it in anymore]

[Teacher Zhao, independent and cheerful]

[Zhao Yifeng has that “this is how the dance should be done” kind of confidence]

Lai Yudong suddenly had an epiphany.

When skill levels are about the same, expression control and stage presence actually have a far greater impact than he had imagined.

Although he hadn’t paid much attention to it before, he believed that his talent in that area was probably…

Not bad?

He’d try practicing in front of a mirror next time.

When the music ended, the seven of them stood in place, slightly out of breath. Dance instructor Cao Yanhui swept her gaze across them, expressionless, and gave her assessment:

“Jin Xiheng and Su Junzhe did well. The rest of you were terrible — especially Zhao Yifeng and Xu An. Watching you dance like that makes me question whether you’ve even been attending these lessons. Some of you have even debuted or participated in survival shows. The theme song shouldn’t be difficult for you, right? Or are you just here to mess around?”

The relaxed atmosphere instantly froze — even Zhao Yifeng withdrew the smile from his face. Everyone held their breath, not daring to speak.

[Our main vocal looks so wronged ]

[Being weak in one area isn’t an excuse — if you want to be an idol, you have to both sing and dance. Otherwise, go join a singing competition.]

[It’s okay, he’ll make a comeback during the next vocal class.]

[Only dance class is a group lesson — vocal class won’t be until tomorrow.]

“Don’t think it’s normal to not learn anything after just a few hours,” Cao Yan said sternly, her voice sharp and commanding without anger. “You’re Class A. Do you realize how many people behind you are eager to pull you down?”

“Out of 101 people, only the top 7 will be chosen. If you keep this attitude, someone else will take your place in the next evaluation.”

She shook her head. “You can go now. Practice more after this. Class B, get ready.”

[Help, I can’t breathe ]

[The instructors in this season’s show are so strict!]

[Don’t take it too seriously — the show is just using this to emotionally torture fans.]

[Honestly, for a class of 101 trainees, learning to this level is already impressive. Later when they edit the main episode, it’ll all be framed as a growth storyline. If you buy into it with genuine feelings, you’ve already lost.]

[Show fans are forever young, forever emotionally invested.]

It was now Class B’s turn to perform, with the group growing to twenty people.

The trainees had been thoroughly intimidated by the earlier scolding — each one wore a serious expression, not daring to slack off for fear of ending up like Class A.

The music started again.

Among the crowd, the most eye-catching was undoubtedly Qu Xincheng from a major entertainment company. His visuals were top-tier even among trainees, and his dancing was a visual treat. However, his weakness was nervousness — he made several mistakes in a row before finally settling into the routine.

This same nervousness was also what cost him a spot in Class A during the initial stage.

[That said, Qu Xincheng’s visuals are absolutely insane]

[Currently picking Qu Xincheng, Jiang Yangfan, and Miura Yuki — a paradise for visual lovers /doge]

[+1, these three are a treat for the eyes]

Jiang Yangfan, who also had quite a bit of attention, wasn’t nearly as impressive. He clearly struggled to memorize the choreography, only putting real effort into the easier-to-remember chorus. The rest of the routine he fumbled through like a cloze test — only filling in the key points.

[As expected, Jiang Yangfan being in Class B makes sense]

[The instructors really have sharp eyes]

[Yangfan just has a poor memory! His skills are actually decent!]

Lai Yudong made a point to watch his roommate, Li Xu. Unfortunately, from a layman’s perspective, Li Xu was one of the weakest dancers in Class B. Originally, he could’ve kept a low profile and blended into the crowd — but his bright red hair was far too eye-catching, repeatedly called out by the barrage of comments for judgment.

Overall, no one in Class B danced exceptionally well, but no one was particularly terrible either. On average, their skill level was slightly higher than Class A’s.

Next up was Class C, whose performance turned out to be even more mediocre.

The only boy who danced decently was Zhou Rui — the kind-hearted trainee who had reminded Lai Yudong in the cafeteria that morning. Unfortunately, his luck didn’t hold. Midway through, he collided with Liang Zhisheng, who had stepped in the wrong direction. The loud “thud” broke the tension in the room like a pin to a balloon, momentarily snapping everyone out of the suffocating atmosphere.

The two of them froze on the spot, eyes wide as they stared at each other, unable to tell who had messed up.

A few chuckles rose from the crowd, and even Cao Yan couldn’t bear to watch — she pressed a hand to her forehead.

Lai Yudong thought pessimistically, Our Room 707 might be doomed.

After the first three classes finished performing the theme song, there was no surprise: Class A had the widest gap between its best and worst performers. And, as expected, the class with the most even skill level was the one about to go on stage — Class F.

The reason was simple: they were all equally bad.

But that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Compared to her harsh critique of Class A, Cao Yan had been more lenient with Class C. So when it came to the universally “average-bad” Class F, she’d likely be even more forgiving.

“Um, Miura…”

That desperate trainee was back again. Seizing the brief chaos as Class C exited and Class F took the stage, he sneakily pulled Lai Yudong aside and whispered:

“Can you stand a bit farther back? I want to be in the last row. How about you take the second-to-last spot?”

Lai Yudong gave him a strange look, not expecting such a ridiculous request.

It wasn’t that moving to the back was out of the question — there were smarter ways to phrase it. For example: “I’m really bad at dancing, and standing at the front would hurt my popularity.” At least that reasoning, from a listener’s point of view, could be considered.

But whatever the motive, asking a competitor to step back and give up camera time was unreasonable.

To put it nicely, it was selfish and tone-deaf. To put it bluntly, it was calculated and malicious.

Faced with the eager, anxious look in the other’s eyes, Lai Yudong calmly lowered his gaze to the name tag — Luo Feiran — and silently added another name to his mental blacklist.

“I want to stand in the front row.”

Though his voice was soft, it clearly conveyed a firm refusal.

“Front row?” Luo Feiran repeated in disbelief.

Lai Yudong simply returned a polite smile and said nothing more, turning to rejoin the group as they headed toward the evaluation area.

As it turned out, he wasn’t the only one with that idea.

Class F, consisting of 42 trainees, arranged themselves in a 7×6 formation. Surprisingly, the most sought-after spots weren’t the center positions in the front row, but the five positions surrounding it — the “guardian” spots flanking the center in the front row, and the three middle spots in the second row.

Had Lai Yudong not firmly set his sights from the beginning on the far-left spot in the front row — a relatively unpopular “edge” position that balanced low profile and visibility — he might have been squeezed out to the fringes.

[There are so many people in Class F!]

[Qichu got completely blocked, I can’t see him QAQ]

[Spotted Pei Lan by his height lol…]

[Class C had around 30+, but Class F has 40+ now? That’s almost half the trainees.]

[Reporting in: Yuki’s at the far left of the front row!]

[I spotted Yuzu right away hahaha]

Lai Yudong glanced to his right. Standing next to him in order were Wang Yiwen, a boy he didn’t recognize, Zeng Kai, and two others who had also taken Su Junzhe’s crash course — which meant that Zeng Kai was positioned dead center, the focal point of the entire class.

As for Pei Lan, mentioned in the comments — he came from a well-known modeling agency and stood at about 1.9 meters tall, towering over everyone in the last row. Next to him, Liu Qichu looked visibly shorter by comparison.

“Can I switch spots?” Liu Qichu whined, tilting his head up to look. “Can I say that out loud? I feel like a hobbit.”

Probably only Liu Qichu still had the mental space to joke around at a time like this.

Once the formation was quickly finalized, everyone stood in place, ready for the assessment.

Lai Yudong struck an impressively textbook starting pose — head slightly bowed, one hand casually placed in his pocket — looking, at first glance, quite convincing.

Even though he clearly knew this was just an informal, in-class spot check that wouldn’t affect rankings, the moment the intro music began, his heart began pounding uncontrollably, and his body turned stiff, as if it had been pumped full of cement.

The very first movement — lifting his head — shattered the poised image he had managed to create while standing still.

Forget it, he thought. No big deal. If I’ve gone from a jpg to a gif, that’s still progress.

He tried to comfort himself like that.

“1, 2, 3, 4…”

Lai Yudong whispered the counts under his breath. He had originally intended to keep them in his head — to avoid looking like a clueless beginner — but the unfamiliar music kept throwing off his concentration. Especially when the vocals kicked in and the lyrics jumped out at him, nearly derailing his internal rhythm.

Thankfully, he managed to stabilize just in time, narrowly avoiding a total disaster right at the start.

However, salvaging a moment didn’t mean he could salvage the entire routine. As soon as it became a real-time performance, problems he’d never even noticed began surfacing one after another.

For instance — he apparently didn’t know how to count beats properly.

“…5, 6 and 7 and 8…”

“1 and 2 and 3… uh… 8?”

“1, 2…? 1, 2, 3, 4…”

He was fine with easy full beats, but those unexpected half-beats completely threw him off. Sometimes he missed them, sometimes he added extras. He alternated between being too slow and too early, stumbling through the counts like a malfunctioning metronome.

And more dramatically — at some point, his dancing, beat-counting, and the actual music all diverged. It was as if they had become three high-risk train tracks: sometimes parallel, sometimes overlapping, sometimes crossing — all while speeding along chaotically. And he? He was the poor soul tied to the tracks, bracing for impact.

Can someone please save him?

[Did Yuki mess up? Why did he repeat that move twice?]

[Honestly, I’d be more surprised if he didn’t mess up lmao 233]

[The trainee behind Yuzu is actually dancing pretty well.]

[That’s Wang Yiwen — but I think he messed up too.]

[Miura’s timing is completely off!]

[Not gonna lie, I can’t even tell what the correct version is…]

A flood of error-calling comments zipped across the screen, and Lai Yudong completely lost his composure. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, nearly drowning out the music. In a panic, he accidentally tripped — his left foot catching on his right — and stumbled forward, almost falling to the floor.

He quickly regained his footing, but it was too late: both the “dance” and the “rhythm” tracks had officially crashed. With his brain now fully disconnected from the chaotic rhythm — as fragile as an illegal, half-collapsed building — he had no idea what move was supposed to come next.

At this point, his only hope was to copy someone else’s answers and try to salvage the wreckage of this performance.

The practice room didn’t have a mirrored wall, and to top it off, his “brilliant” self had chosen to stand in the front row — which meant sneakily watching others was now his only option.

But things got even worse.

Lai Yudong turned his head… and felt the cold sting of despair. Everyone around him was doing their own thing — different moves, different timing — their steps completely out of sync like a discordant multi-voice chorus. Anyone watching would’ve thought it was a freestyle segment.

Lai Yudong: “…”

No wonder no one can tell what the correct version is.

Just as he was about to give up and blindly flail his way through the rest, fate threw him a lifeline. The jumbled mess of rhythm was suddenly drowned out by the music — sharp and clear, as if his ears had finally tuned in.

“…To the stars. To the stars.”

Lai Yudong’s eyes lit up.

It’s the chorus!

He remembered the choreography that matched these lines of melody!

“Never back down, fight to reach the top.”

Scenes of repeated practice flashed through his mind. Lai Yudong tentatively moved his limbs into position, mimicking the moves that went with the lyrics — and the moment it all clicked, it felt like he had found the missing piece of a puzzle. His previously helpless limbs finally had somewhere to go.

“To the stars. To the stars.”

“Never give up, dreams shine bright like the stars.”

The first two segments were somewhat similar.

The English line repeated with the same moves, but the Chinese line used a different sequence.

In a daze, Lai Yudong no longer felt like he was dancing — rather, he was being guided by the music. His memories wrapped around his joints like threads, maneuvering his puppet-like, stiff body into motion.

It might have looked laughable to an outsider, but he couldn’t contain the joy of finally finding the rhythm again.

Next came a new set of moves.

“To the stars. To the stars.”

Clench fist, reach out, cross to the left, fingers bloom open.

Change direction, clench again, cross and bloom once more.

Yes — that’s it!

When his movements lined up perfectly with his memory, a delighted smile crept onto Lai Yudong’s face. The lyrics he had memorized scrolled through his mind like on-screen subtitles, and when he reached the final line of that section, his lips instinctively moved with the music.

This time, he didn’t mutter empty counts.

He sang — a full lyric line, smooth and complete:

“I’m your only star.”

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