Trainee Ch.23.2

Chapter 23.2: Final Evaluation

Thanks to Liang Zhisheng’s warm care, the group arrived at the large practice room on the third floor.

The method for choosing the initial center was simple: the seven A-class trainees would perform the theme song together, and the rest of the trainees would vote for the one they thought was most suited for the center. Votes would be counted on the spot to determine the c-position.

“Ugh, this is so hard to choose. They all look like good picks,” Liang Zhisheng said, overwhelmed by the seven options. His decision paralysis flared up again, so he nudged the roommate beside him to get a second opinion. “Have you decided who to vote for?”

“Yeah.”

Lai Yudong had known from the start who he would vote for. Whether or not he’d get to dance the theme song, his vote was always going to that person.

“Who?” asked Liang Zhisheng.

Lai Yudong looked toward A-Class. “Su Junzhe.”

[“Master-apprentice duo climbing ranks!”]

[Is it possible that Tiantian Su is just naturally good at dancing?]

[I don’t get it—why would those two things conflict?]

[Backtracking a bit, it sounded like a sympathy vote.]

[You can have both popularity and skill, though.]

“Why’d you vote for him?” Liang Zhisheng, now acting as the voice of the comment section, asked. “I thought you preferred Bai Xuanhe’s style. He does look pretty cool at first glance.”

—Because Su Junzhe is a good person.

That reason was absolutely off-limits for Lai Yudong to say out loud—otherwise, it would be interpreted as a vote based on personal favor, which wouldn’t do either of them any good.

From a non-professional perspective, Lai Yudong couldn’t accurately judge who had the strongest skill level; he couldn’t analyze singing and dancing frame by frame. But comparatively, Su Junzhe, Mo Li, and Lin Xiao had more emotional impact. That brought his decision down from one in seven to one in three.

Which made voting for Su Junzhe even more justified.

In conclusion, it was both a skills-based and personal vote—with the latter slightly outweighing the former.

Lai Yudong gave a safe answer that balanced both subjective and objective reasoning: “He’s the most suitable.”

“Maybe I should vote for him too? But that feels too random.” Liang Zhisheng gave up thinking and turned to ask the other two roommates who they planned to vote for.

When it came time for the public voting round, the method was simple: stand behind the person you wanted to vote for. This effectively eliminated any behind-the-scenes manipulation, and the lineup made it visually clear that the votes were concentrated behind Su Junzhe and Mo Li.

In the end, Su Junzhe won the center position for the theme song recording by a margin of three votes.

Many cast admiring glances at him—the theme song’s center doesn’t just get the spotlight in the middle of the stage; there’s also a few seconds of solo dance. It’d be hard not to remember him.

According to past seasons of survival shows, being voted as the first c-position is like having one foot already in the debut lineup. Now, all that’s left is to get the other foot in too.

[Congratulations to our first center, Su Junzhe! / confetti]

[Sweet Bean Su Junzhe, first A, double A, top-tier dancer—investing in him won’t disappoint!]

[Mo Li missed it by just three votes!?]

[Seems like everyone who voted for Su trained with him before]

[If you’re not happy about it, start your own dance class then]

[Everyone knows trainee voting is just a popularity contest. Might as well let the audience vote instead.]

[And what, audience votes don’t just measure fan count? You think it’s fair for returning contestants and total rookies to compete head-to-head?]

As expected, the screen was soon filled with barrage comments toeing the line of censorship. The competition wasn’t just between the trainees—there was obvious tension between the fans too.

It couldn’t be helped. When interests were involved, disputes were inevitable—especially in survival shows.

Lai Yudong stopped paying attention to the barrage. Holding the school-uniform-style outfit issued by the production team—blazer, white shirt, trousers, and tie—he couldn’t help but fall into deep thought.

Wearing this tomorrow… would there be time to wash it?

Back at Dorm 707, Liang Zhisheng hung up his new uniform. Under the astonished stares of his roommates, he pulled out a handheld garment steamer from his suitcase like a real-life Doraemon.

“By the way,” he asked, “have you guys thought about your theme song ending poses yet?”

[Wait, what’s that? A hair dryer?]

[It’s a portable steamer—for ironing clothes.]

[No way. This guy actually brought a garment steamer when packing??]

[So meticulous!]

Lai Yudong stared in awe.

This guy’s setup was just too complete—unlike his own suitcase, which felt as empty as a half-eaten bag of chips.

He’d have to muster the courage to borrow that steamer later.

Back to the topic of the theme song ending poses.

At the end of the theme song, the camera would pan across each trainee’s face, lingering for around ten seconds—giving the audience a chance to remember their faces, while also testing who could best seize that precious golden window of screen time.

Attracting fans with a god-tier ending pose was a common tactic in survival shows. But not everyone could stand out—overdoing it could easily backfire, turning the moment into a cringeworthy clip that would circulate online forever as a cautionary tale.

Aside from the most basic “stand-and-pant” pose, things like forming a heart with your hands, poking your cheek, or winking were popular choices. Some would add clever touches or props, while others went all-in with carefully choreographed sequences.

“I’ve already got mine planned,” Li Xu said, full of confidence.

“Wanna show us?” Liang Zhisheng suggested.

“Sure,” Li Xu agreed without hesitation.

Facing the three curious pairs of eyes, he pressed his thumb against the corner of his mouth and slowly dragged it from right to left in an exaggerated motion. His lips trembled slightly from the movement, jiggling like jelly. At the end, he tilted his chin upward and flashed a cocky, devilish smirk from above.

Lai Yudong: “…”

There was something he wanted to say, but wasn’t sure if he should.

[omg]

[take it away ahhhhhhh]

[this is… hard to evaluate]

[what the hell]

Short as they were, the barrage comments packed a punch—you could tell plenty of people had just been critically hit by that performance.

It was clear that Li Xu had meant to look cool, but he might not have practiced his expression in the mirror… or maybe his sense of aesthetics was just unique. Either way, the impact was overwhelming.

“Uh…” Liang Zhisheng hesitated, unsure how to phrase it. “You’re… set on that one?”

“You mean the other one?” Li Xu didn’t catch the implied criticism. Brimming with confidence, he demonstrated another ending move—this time a dramatic series of hand seals. “How about this?”

Cringe-worthy as it was, Li Xu’s second pose had solid execution—his movements were sharp and fluid, and paired with that exaggerated, anime-like red hair, he gave off the vibe of a hot-blooded shounen protagonist. It instantly wiped away any greasy or try-hard impression.

Without hesitation, Liang Zhisheng said, “The second one is better. It’s unique and memorable.”

“Then I’ll go with that.”

With Li Xu taking the lead, Liang Zhisheng followed up with his own ending pose. He formed a heart using his thumb and index finger, then lightly tapped it against his lips. The motion was crisp and snappy.

Xu An was firmly in the “standing still” camp. He felt too awkward doing any flashy moves, so he planned to simply smile at the camera. It was simple, but perfectly in line with his image.

Then Liang Zhisheng turned to the only roommate who hadn’t shown anything yet: “What about you, Yuki? Got anything in mind?”

“…Not yet.”

Lai Yudong’s mind was completely blank. He wasn’t someone who took many selfies, and the rare photos he did take were at family gatherings, usually dragged in by his mom to pose with a forced, businesslike smile. For now, he couldn’t think of a single suitable ending pose.

It had to be both non-cringey and memorable. His first instinct?

A funny face.

Yeah, he was good at those.

But no way that would work, right!?

With the theme song recording looming, Lai Yudong had no choice but to carve out time from his practice schedule just to experiment with poses in front of a mirror.

He spent nearly an hour contorting his face—raising eyebrows, squinting, smirking. He tried every style from aloof to mischievous, sunny to cute, gentle to charismatic… but ended up paralyzed by indecision.

It wasn’t until just before bed that he finally made a decision and settled on his ending pose.

…

Theme song recording day.

Everyone rode a bus to the filming site where their initial stage performance had taken place days ago. The elaborately decorated stage drew gasps of amazement from the trainees as they walked in—most of them had never set foot on something this grand in their lives.

Class B —

“A-class’s stage is so empty—why couldn’t they squeeze in one more person?”

“Why don’t you go up as a camera operator for A-class?”

“Honestly? Not a bad idea. But camera operators don’t stand on the stage either.”

Class C and Class F —

“Our position on stage is so off to the side.”

“At least you get to stand on stage the whole time. We’re like mid-roll ads in a TV show.”

“There is a difference—premium users can skip ads.”

“That just made it sadder, didn’t it?!”

Just as the trainees had said, A-class was positioned at the very center of the stage. The intro featured a solo segment with all seven A-class members. B and C Classes were stationed at an angle behind them, only entering the frame after that section ended.

Class F wasn’t allowed to perform on the main stage, but they were permitted to appear after the bridge—joining from a dimly lit area below the main platform to take part in the group dance break. Afterward, they’d exit the stage from that same lower level.

Finally, in a dazzling finale with confetti bursting into the air, the initial center rose on a lift—like a morning star ascending—to take the spotlight at the highest point of the stage.

That was the full performance sequence.

The theme song stage would be broadcast the next day. To preserve the element of surprise, the recording was not livestreamed, and thus the barrage comments were temporarily disabled.

Thanks to his familiarity with the choreography, Lai Yudong was assigned a spot in the front row—right in the center. It was fair to say he represented the face of Class C.

The awareness that over twenty people stood behind him made his nerves spike, and his fingers trembled slightly.

But that nervousness was gradually worn down over the course of countless takes. They recorded the performance dozens of times, and by the end, he was completely numb—keeping up his expressions purely through force of will.

Then, finally, columns of smoke erupted around the stage, and the air was filled with confetti that fluttered down like a celestial shower—marking the final take. At long last, they were released from the endless loop of recording.

The theme song music came to a stop, and everyone froze in place.

A few seconds later, the background music shifted into a soft piano accompaniment—signaling the start of the ending pose segment.

The camera began sweeping across each trainee’s face in turn.

However, when it reached Lai Yudong, an awkward mishap occurred—

A piece of confetti had landed perfectly—smack—right on the corner of his mouth.

It was as if the god of variety shows had cursed him with bad luck. Lai Yudong’s brain instantly went on high alert, shifting into emergency crisis mode.

First: the camera was already locked on him.

If his first move was to wipe the corner of his mouth, it would likely result in one of two things—either he’d look like someone awkwardly brushing off a grain of rice after eating, or it would resemble Li Xu’s infamous, over-the-top lip wipe from earlier, totally clashing with the clean image he was aiming for.

Second: doing nothing wasn’t an option.

If the confetti had landed somewhere else, it might’ve looked decorative or even added a charming touch. But stuck to the corner of his mouth? It was just an eyesore—no way to spin it as attractive.

And most importantly, his ending pose involved blowing a kiss forward. If he accidentally blew that ribbon onto his teeth… he’d seriously consider hitting the reset button on life.

It would be way more embarrassing than his first-stage debut.

His brain fired off a plan in less than a second.

Lai Yudong drew a heart in the air using both index fingers. At the same time, he added an unscripted facial movement—pressing his lips together and subtly using his tongue to shift the ribbon from the corner of his mouth to the center.

Key point one: keep the movement as subtle as possible.

Key point two: absolutely no tongue visibility.

Otherwise, it’d come off as painfully try-hard.

Next, he curled his index fingers and extended his middle fingers, tucking in the rest—bringing both hands together to form a proper heart. The previously outlined air-drawn heart now became a tangible, full one.

Then came the most crucial step.

He gently blew a puff of air toward the heart, using it to send the annoying ribbon flying—and at the same time, to “scatter” the heart itself. His hands followed through with a soft outward motion, as if he were releasing a flurry of hearts into the air, fingers dancing like he was playing an invisible piano.

All things considered, he’d pulled off a clean save from a potential onstage disaster.

Lai Yudong gave the camera a soft, faint smile.

And in his heart, he had only one thought:

He hated confetti.

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