Chapter 60: Second Performance
Peng Tao finally understood why Xu Mingmei had been so out of it after watching the first performance. Interacting with him offline felt like a dream.
Yue Zhaolin stood on stage, looking down and engaging with the Tide members—his every reaction vivid and lifelike, as if the person on the screen had broken through dimensions into the real world.
Peng Tao’s ears were filled with the roar of the crowd, her whole mind buzzing with excitement. She couldn’t bear to blink, unwilling to miss a single expression on Yue Zhaolin’s face.
At the same time, she was screaming internally: ‘Why aren’t we allowed to record the performance?!’
The second group performance was already god-tier from the moment he walked out in his new look, and now with this explosive fan interaction—she didn’t even dare imagine how amazing the actual stage must be.
Yue Zhaolin listened to the chaotic noise from the crowd, clearly enjoying the playful chaos, then coaxed with a grin, “I learned a new move. Wanna see it?”
“Yes!” came the overwhelming chorus.
Suddenly, a high-pitched female voice cut through the crowd: “When can we finally achieve one Yue Zhaolin per household? I’m so in love with you—!”
The voice carried across half the auditorium and shot straight into Yue Zhaolin’s ears.
He blinked.
The voice was penetrating yet full and powerful. Next to him, Chu Li and Orleans were already doubled over in laughter.
Shu Yang had a face that practically said: I’m shipping it.JPG
Based on his gossip-reading experience, this ship was more shippable than most of the fake CPs in the entertainment industry.
Downstage—
Mao Ding had taken off even his innermost layer of clothing. His back was covered in red blotches. A staff member jumped in alarm: “Are you breaking out in hives?!”
Mao Ding: “Hives? What hives…”
He froze for a moment, then quickly realized—he must be having an allergic reaction.
Mao Ding was allergic to wool, but the costume wasn’t even made of wool.
No reason for it? No, not exactly no reason.
Both his first and second group performances had placed him in the same team as Yue Zhaolin. In a flash of clarity, Mao Ding figured it out—someone was jealous of him.
He had never gone around announcing his wool allergy, only casually mentioned it once when picking outfits before the first performance.
The only people in that team were Yue Zhaolin, Cen Chi, Wei Lai, Tan Shen, and Chen Fei. But Mao Ding didn’t think any of them would deliberately try to sabotage him.
Then who could it be?
No time to think.
Yue Zhaolin had already stalled long enough for him on stage. Gritting his teeth, Mao Ding got dressed and headed out—he’d just have to endure this performance for now.
Once Mao Ding was ready, the director’s voice came through the in-ear monitor, explaining the situation.
Hearing this, Li Ying smiled and picked up the microphone, seamlessly picking up where Yue Zhaolin had left off. After a couple more sentences, he moved on to the main event:
“Producers of Starlight, the music is ready. Please—enjoy the stage!”
Peng Tao perked up.
“It’s starting, it’s starting!”
From Tide’s vantage point in the audience, she saw Yue Zhaolin smile at them before heading to the back right of the stage—his starting position.
The lights dimmed.
The performance was about to begin.
·
In Tide’s breathless anticipation, the first thing to hit the stage was a beam of light—and the sound of a bell.
“Ding—”
Clear and melodious.
On the big screen, two bells appeared, strung together with a cord. As the camera pulled back, it revealed they were part of a sword tassel hanging from the hilt of a blade.
The bells themselves made no sound—they were purely decorative, synchronized with the music.
The sword’s blade was black, matching perfectly with Chu Li’s costume.
He was the first to appear on screen.
Chu Li moved in sync with the background music, sword dancing to the sound of the bells. Soon after, Shu Yang and Mao Ding followed, the three forming a sword formation.
A mist began to spread across the stage—
Dry ice.
The music swelled, foreboding like an approaching storm. There were no lyrics, but it felt as though it was declaring to the audience:
The “summoning” in Crane Bell had been completed.
Then came Orleans, in the form of a white crane. He first appeared with his back to the camera, facing off against all three. He exchanged one move and quickly retreated, clearly at a disadvantage.
The camera zoomed out.
From the ceiling, two intersecting beams of light poured down. Mist from the dry ice flowed in between, forming what looked like a rippling wall of light.
And in the next second, Yue Zhaolin—dressed entirely in white—stepped through the glowing curtain.
The director chose not to show a front-facing view but a three-quarter angle. From that perspective, as he walked forward, the rippling “water-like” light seemed to brush gently across his body.
It should have been a harsh downlight—but not for Yue Zhaolin.
He took a single step forward, and the light first traced the curve of his nose, the soft fringe of his lashes, then fell on the silver-white ponytail hanging down his back.
The stage lighting overall was sparse, but with Yue Zhaolin’s entrance, it was like the finishing touch on a masterpiece.
And the force of his presence—as if breaking through a seal or magical barrier—instantly triggered a wave of gasps from the audience.
There wasn’t even time to properly take in his appearance on the big screen—his posture, the way he held his sword, that flawless face—before his first move had already begun.
“Ding—”
Another chime.
Yue Zhaolin raised his sword and swept it in a powerful opening move. It had both the force of momentum and the perfect amount of control—a strike that balanced strength and grace.
He had practiced for a long time, all to create exactly this visual impact.
Yue Zhaolin knew very well that, technically speaking, he couldn’t surpass Chu Li. But what he could do was make his moves look stronger—not just flashy choreography.
So when he finished his sword swing and angled the tip of the blade to touch the floor in a sharp, clean landing—it was deliberate, and crisp.
The big screen zoomed in on Yue Zhaolin’s face.
His expression was cold and distant—not just for aesthetics, but matching the stage concept and costume perfectly. At that moment, he really did look like an aloof immortal from a fantasy realm.
As he moved, the subtle patterns on his costume shimmered faintly under the stage lights.
Walking up beside Orleans, Yue Zhaolin raised his longsword—light glinting off the blade—and performed a dual sword technique together with him.
The trio led by Chu Li took two steps back in response.
The background music continued, guzheng, xiao, and pipa weaving together—a soundscape that evoked both clashing armies and the gentle tinkling of mountain springs.
“Wong—!”
In the next beat, Yue Zhaolin twisted his wrist, spinning the sword into a flourish. First an outward wrist spin, then a turn into a backhand draw as he sliced forward.
His movements were swift and precise. With the added flair of his costume, the hem of his robe flared outward in the spin like an ice flower blooming in midair.
And with every sword swing, it was as if the wind itself whistled past the ears.
The longsword was custom-made—entirely silver-white, inlaid with a few deep blue gemstones that made it look both mysterious and stunning.
Yue Zhaolin’s gaze remained calm, deep, unreadable. When the camera panned away, it felt like the entire venue had been pressed into silence by an invisible hand—then brought back to life.
“Godlike…”
“Insane…”
From the audience, Tide’s eyes were wide, barely able to form coherent praise. Their minds were overloaded with thoughts, but they couldn’t articulate even half a sentence.
The camera zoomed out, bringing Yue Zhaolin’s full form into view. His sword choreography wasn’t done yet.
After drawing his blade, he pivoted around, lifted a knee, and drove the sword forward toward Chu Li’s trio. The strike was fierce and filled with killing intent, yet the two strips of white gauze on his sleeves fluttered elegantly from the force, like banners in the wind.
A perfect blend of grace and edge.
—
In the waiting room—
This time, there were no monkey screeches. Just a roomful of people, mouths agape, staring at the big screen—mirroring the exact reactions of the audience below.
Gone were the exaggerated expressions performed just for screen time. What remained was genuine awe.
Wei Lai stared at the screen in a daze and murmured, “These water sleeves are too obedient… even the arc they fly in is perfect. So ethereal, yet heroic…”
“Isn’t this exactly what I imagined when reading xianxia novels?”
The fighting was beautiful, but it didn’t sacrifice power.
Tan Shen, uncharacteristically silent: “……”
In truth, he was quietly chanting a calming mantra—even looks have limits, right?
Everything about this second performance had pushed him past sensory threshold. It was even more intense than the six-pack clip from the last fan meeting, and now his heart was pounding uncontrollably.
Meng Yu pressed his lips together.
Just like in the first performance, Yue Zhaolin was the last to appear. But the moment he stepped on stage, he instantly stole the spotlight.
Yue Zhaolin.
It could only be Yue Zhaolin.
—
On the screen, the performance continued.
The formation had split into two groups—those “summoning the crane,” and the “crane” itself. As the music layered into a pre-climax, the stage shifted into a buildup of escalating combat.
But ever since Yue Zhaolin appeared, he had completely taken command of the scene.
“Ding—”
Then came a section that, in any other performance, would be considered the dance break—a technical showcase duet between Chu Li and Yue Zhaolin.
Yue Zhaolin first spun the sword with his palm, then planted one hand on the ground and flipped sideways in a cartwheel, the other hand keeping his sword in position behind his back. The white sleeves of his robe fluttered wildly.
After the flip, he stabilized his center of gravity, dropped into a low stance, and swept into a scissor-kick pose. His sword tip pointed diagonally toward the sky as he spun in place.
The two dueled across the air, not touching, but matching technique for technique. Their moves were so dazzling and precise that the audience erupted immediately:
“That’s so cool—aaahhh!!”
There were even beast-like howls—from Tide, of course.
“Aaaahhhhhh—!”
Amid the screams, Yue Zhaolin was about to move into his next step when he suddenly felt a tug on his sword. A glance out of the corner of his eye revealed that, at some point, a strip of white gauze had wrapped itself around the hilt.
He could’ve just pulled it off—but that wouldn’t have looked good.
Fueled by adrenaline, Yue Zhaolin chose a flashier solution: he tossed and caught the sword. With a twist of the hilt and a casual throw, he switched hands mid-air.
The gauze hadn’t been tightly wrapped, so the moment he threw it, it unraveled on its own.
Offstage, Peng Tao’s eyes went wide. The move looked effortless, almost careless—but it was stupidly attractive.
He and his sword… looked like one entity.
From her seat, Li Ying raised an eyebrow slightly. She remembered that move wasn’t in Yue Zhaolin’s rehearsal. For a newcomer, that kind of quick thinking and adaptability was rare.
It might even become one of those iconic moments.
All five mentors simultaneously leaned forward, fixated on Yue Zhaolin. One after another, they began praising him right in front of the camera.
“The way he handles props shows how much he’s practiced—this isn’t something you can fake.”
“Chu Li has technical superiority, but Yue Zhaolin integrates his personal style into the choreography—it feels like a complete whole.” Then he added, “Of course, the others are good too.”
The dance mentor sighed. “Such a pity.”
Everyone looked over. “What is?”
“Just judging by Yue Zhaolin’s physicality and flexibility—he’s clearly a natural dance trainee. If he’d started young, his potential would’ve been limitless.”
“You think so too?”
“What?”
RAP mentor Verse chimed in, “Remember Tan Shen from S.K? He mentioned it once too—said Yue Zhaolin has the kind of frame that’s perfect for modeling.”
In truth, most male models have a 50-50 body ratio. The industry prioritizes height, long arms, and a wrist line that falls below the crotch—so clothes don’t end up making them look like a T-Rex.
But Yue Zhaolin belonged to the flawless category.
As they talked, another rap mentor, Nana, let out a soft sigh, eyes fixed on the screen.
“Ahh… I don’t even want this stage to end…”
…
After the battle segment came a synchronized group routine.
Yue Zhaolin stood at the very front, using a classical dance-inspired point-turn, flipping his body while flicking the sword upward in a graceful arc.
Then came the final climax:
He leapt into the air, and at the same time, the longsword spun above his head—fast enough to leave afterimages.
His silver-white hair lifted into a sweeping curve mid-air, full of life and energy.
The instant he landed, he touched down on one foot, drawing the sword from his waist into a piercing thrust—sharp enough to feel like it could slice the very air. It matched the final strike of the background music perfectly.
Every move he made hit exactly on the beat—without a single misstep.
Just like the music itself, his performance evoked the sensation of a white crane beating its wings—piercing, fierce, and cold.
The wind from his swordplay lingered like a breeze around him. It could cut—but it also elevated him to a level that felt untouchable. Visible, yet shrouded in a mystique that couldn’t be unraveled.
He was Yue Zhaolin… and yet, not quite.
The version of him onstage possessed an entirely different kind of allure.
He had won.
And the war of “Crane Bell” had come to an end.
“Thud—”
The climax cut off sharply.
He gripped the sword in reverse, the back of his hand facing forward, blade held horizontally across the lower half of his face—then slowly shifted into a final pose, eyes locking on the camera.
That marked the first ending pose of the stage.
On the big screen, his body shifted from motion to stillness—but the trailing motion of his garments still lingered.
It was breathtaking.
In the camera frame, the faint veins on the back of Yue Zhaolin’s hand stood out slightly as he breathed softly, a strand of silver-white hair swaying gently, caught on his eyelashes.
Deadly.
As if feeling that strand was in the way, Yue Zhaolin tilted his head slightly, hoping it would fall naturally with the pull of gravity.
But the hair snagged on his lashes, tickling him—he couldn’t help but close his eyes for a moment.
By some accident, it became a wink—barely one, but a wink from both eyes nonetheless.
To Tide sitting below the stage—
It was like being plunged into fire and ice at once.
A heartbeat later, the silence in the studio shattered and the place erupted in cheers, applause and screams exploding like a wave crashing into the ceiling.
The performance ended abruptly. More than three minutes of pure music somehow felt far too short.
The audience hadn’t yet emerged from their immersion—nor did they want to. And when they didn’t know what else to say, they all called out the same name in unison:
“Yue Zhaolin—!”
“Yue Zhaolin—!”
“Yue Zhaolin—!”