Trainee Ch.31

Chapter 31: First Performance (4)

Clearly, asking Lai Yudong to break down the choreography was just a joke from Zhou Rui. No matter how gifted he might be, there was no way a trainee whose training period was equal to the show’s filming time could be put in charge of teaching the entire group’s dance.

If that happened, a postmodern mechanical dance would shatter the performance stage — the only mass robot dance in all of domestic entertainment would be born.

The coolness of mint and the coldness of metal might share similarities, but they were not the same thing.

Although switching choreographers wasn’t feasible, Zhou Rui was inspired by the idea. The two of them could collaborate to make up for each other’s shortcomings, which would also significantly boost their efficiency.

Lai Yudong gladly agreed.

As long as he wasn’t being asked to do something beyond his capabilities that could drag others down, he was more than willing to do his part wherever he could help.

[Two really good boys]

[Even Miura got forced into helping with the choreography — how messed up is this group?!]

[Doesn’t matter. If the stage flops, no one will blame Yuzu. If it’s a hit, Yuzu gets credit, wins audience goodwill, and gets to level up too. Total win.]

[Tragic, but somehow motivational too.]

[What did Yuzu ever do wrong? All he wanted was KFC!]

Lai Yudong: …

Did those all-powerful netizens manage to dig up the backstory the system assigned to him?

So embarrassing — and in a way that was different from the shame of reacting on stage for his first performance.

There was nothing wrong with wanting KFC, but getting forced into a survival show because of it was like buying spicy sticks in front of the school gate, running into your homeroom teacher, and getting roped into a math olympiad — and then the entire class finds out and keeps asking what brand of spicy sticks you were buying.

The worst part was:

He never even got to eat the KFC!

Total loss!

Back to the main topic.

After finishing their discussion, they resumed breaking down the choreography. The two of them started by watching the video together, with Zhou Rui dancing and Lai Yudong correcting him. Their progress sped up considerably—this was truly a case where one plus one equaled more than two.

Though drama and conflict always drew attention, aside from a handful of viewers who just wanted a laugh, the audience generally preferred to see unity and teamwork. The image of working together toward a shared dream was what truly resonated with loyal, emotionally invested fans of talent shows—excluding the toxic solo stans, of course.

The only one who seemed bothered by the situation was Zeng Kai. He muttered under his breath, “Is it really okay to have Miura help break down the dance? Teacher Cao Yan said he was pulled in by the director last minute—totally no foundation.”

He didn’t dare make it too obvious in front of the cameras, so all he could do was subtly bring up Lai Yudong’s background.

Chu Tianyi didn’t even look up as he replied, “You’re not a beginner, so you do it instead.”

He wasn’t taking sides. In fact, he had never interacted with the pale blond-haired boy before—they had only just gotten grouped together, and that tongue-twister of a name had only stuck after that.

But Zeng Kai had been causing noise ever since the song selection phase, and his constant chirping was getting on Chu Tianyi’s nerves.

Zeng Kai choked: “I know I’m not good, that’s why I didn’t volunteer.”

“Then at least you’re self-aware.”

“……”

[If you know how to talk, then please talk more LMAO]

[I’m dying—Chu Tianyi really doesn’t hold back]

[Why are all the rappers on this show so brutally honest? Were your personas all bulk-ordered from the same factory?]

[As someone who’s followed Chu before—yeah, he’s always been like this]

Several nonsensical comments floated across the screen. Thinking his teammates were arguing again, Lai Yudong glanced back during a pause in the video. But all he saw was Zhao Yifeng turning his head away, covering his mouth and snickering—his little braid bobbing with the movement of his shoulders.

What the heck was going on?

Lai Yudong stared at Zhao Yifeng in confusion. After catching his gaze, Zhao Yifeng casually waved his hand and mouthed, “It’s nothing.”

“What’s wrong?” Zhou Rui noticed Lai Yudong standing still and followed his line of sight, but saw nothing unusual.

Lai Yudong shook his head. “It’s nothing. Let’s keep going.”

Before they knew it, it was mealtime. Members of Group B for “Peppermint” started trickling out one by one. Eventually, even the last ones—Su Junzhe and Mo Li—left together, leaving only Group A in the practice room, with no signs of disbanding.

“What time is it?” Luo Feiran, dizzy with hunger, couldn’t sit still anymore. He nudged Shu Tengjie with his elbow, hoping their team leader would realize that humans needed food to function.

Shu Tengjie raised his wrist to check his watch. “Almost one. Ten minutes to go.”

In the corner, the duo was still diligently breaking down the choreography, heads leaning together over a shared tablet, like deskmates in a class group project thrown together last-minute.

Seeing how engrossed they were, Shu Tengjie called out, “Zhou Rui, Miura—it’s getting late. Time for lunch.”

“Hmm? It’s lunchtime already?” Zhou Rui glanced at the time in the top left corner of the tablet. “We’re almost done with this part. Yuki and I want to finish it before taking a break. You guys go ahead and eat.”

“Thanks for the hard work. Let’s regroup here at 3 PM—sound good?”

“Sounds good.”

As soon as the words were spoken, Luo Feiran leapt up from the floor like he’d just heard the lunch bell, shouting “Food, food!” as he dashed out the door. Anyone who didn’t know better would’ve thought he hadn’t eaten in three days.

The rest of the team trickled out one after another, leaving only Lai Yudong and Zhou Rui in the practice room—spacious enough to accommodate both groups, now feeling noticeably empty in contrast.

[Feeling bad for the Real(RuiYu) group—working hard and still no lunch]

[But those two have always been super driven]

[I have a bold idea—what if Zhou Rui and Yuzu asked Su Junzhe to teach them? Isn’t that how they did it for the theme song?]

[Might as well just crash Group B’s practice sessions.]

[Use the enemy’s strengths against them, huh?]

[Honestly, not the worst idea.]

Lai Yudong: “……”

It was a bold idea.

The two groups were technically in competition. No matter how good their relationship might be, this wasn’t something they could ask for. Even if Group B was feeling extra generous and offered to help, they couldn’t accept it. It would go against the entire premise of the group task—and it wouldn’t be fair to the other teams either.

Thankfully, most of the comments were clearly meant as jokes.

After finishing the breakdown of the second section of choreography, Lai Yudong rubbed his sore eyes, his overloaded brain feeling slightly dizzy.

The dance looked light and cheerful, but in reality, it was packed with intricate details. It felt like playing a spot-the-difference game—holding up the tablet and comparing Zhou Rui’s movements to those in the demo video, adjusting him manually whenever necessary.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t found the right method, or maybe he just wasn’t familiar with the common logic of choreography. But even though he hadn’t danced much himself, this kind of work was more exhausting than just burying his head in practice.

He could now truly appreciate how incredible Su Junzhe was.

“Let’s continue this afternoon. We probably won’t finish it all today,” Zhou Rui said, accepting the tissue Lai Yudong handed him and wiping the sweat from his forehead and neck.

“No rush. Just go at your pace.”

Even though Lai Yudong knew time was tight, he didn’t want to pressure Zhou Rui.

Whether or not they could finish the breakdown wasn’t up to just the two of them—it also depended on how much time it would take to teach the rest of the team. The first part hadn’t gone too smoothly, and things would likely get even slower from here.

They were scheduled to regroup at 3 p.m., and while Lai Yudong wasn’t sure how long they planned to practice, he boldly guessed it wouldn’t go too late. After all, Zhou Rui had initially approached him because he couldn’t find anyone else to practice with—and Zeng Kai and Luo Feiran were his roommates.

So this team probably wouldn’t be practicing until dawn like they did for the theme song.

Zhou Rui’s next question confirmed his hunch: “Want to pull an all-nighter? I’m hoping to finish breaking down the entire dance before tomorrow’s meetup.”

Lai Yudong nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”

[Here we go again LMAO]

[All the night-owls seem to be in the Peppermint group]

[True, they’ve still got Su Su and Mo Li too]

[No-prize bet: who’s going to be the last one to turn off the lights?]

“Come on, let’s go eat. I didn’t even feel hungry until Shu Tengjie mentioned it—now my stomach won’t stop growling,” Zhou Rui said as he grabbed a pen and lyric sheet provided by the production crew. “Bring the tablet too—I want to break down the stage positions.”

Unlike the higher-level classrooms in the dorm building, tablets and MP3 players could be taken out of this practice room, though not out of the building.

Lai Yudong obediently did as asked. “What’s ‘stage positions’?”

“It’s the movement and formation changes,” Zhou Rui explained. “You need to mark it down—it’s easier to visualize that way. Nothing else to do while digesting after lunch, and the cafeteria has tables, so might as well break it down there.”

It sounded pretty beginner-friendly—just writing down who stood where.

Lai Yudong, eager to help, offered, “Can I assist you?”

Having someone to share the load made Zhou Rui light up with joy. “That’d be perfect! Otherwise I’d have to rewind the video a dozen times.”

“Then let’s do it together.”

[Yuzu: I may know nothing, but I’m down to do anything]

[Certified eager learner right here]

[Why does it feel like Yuzu can do everything except sing, dance, or rap (lol)]

[Yuzu’s attitude alone is enough—no matter how much of a disaster the first performance is, I’ll still love him unconditionally.]

[After watching Yuzu’s theme song fancam, I feel like maybe his skills aren’t great, but it’s not like he’s a total trainwreck.]

[If it is a trainwreck, it’s probably someone else dragging him down.]

Although those comments were maybe a little tea-spilling, Lai Yudong couldn’t help but think—he was just doing what any normal trainee should do. It wasn’t anything above and beyond that deserved to be generously forgiven even if their performance turned out to be a disaster.

Besides, he hadn’t even started trying hard yet. This was still the most basic phase of preparation.

What if he was just putting on a show—offering a few insignificant contributions to set the stage for excusing himself later? Wouldn’t that mean he’d gotten away with it?

It’d be like cramming in front of your parents before an exam, pretending to study while actually doodling or playing tic-tac-toe on your textbook, only to hand in a failing paper and still get comforted with, “You did your best, just try again next time.”

If people were willing to trust someone so easily in front of countless cameras, they could be fooled in an instant!

…Well, that what if didn’t apply to him.

If he couldn’t even manage this much, then his already microscopic debut odds would drop to absolute zero. Only a fool would actually believe in that joke about debuting while standing still.

At this point, it wasn’t even clear if he’d make it to the second performance round.

As it turned out, things progressed just as Lai Yudong expected.

Their group’s practice officially ended at 10 p.m., but not everyone clocked out on time—Chu Tianyi and Zhao Yifeng stayed until midnight, while he and Zhou Rui stayed until 3 a.m., becoming the last to leave among all the trainees in the “Peppermint” group.

That didn’t mean Group B was any less hardworking—it was just that their practice started at 9 a.m., while his group began at 10:30. Most of the members believed that getting enough sleep helped improve efficiency.

Lai Yudong couldn’t even come up with a valid counterargument—because, looking back on the day’s practice, their group really had nothing to do with the word efficiency.

Afternoon practice officially started at 3 p.m., but was interrupted when the production crew pulled them out for individual interviews, eating up nearly an hour. They resumed until 6 p.m. before it was dinnertime again, and then practiced from 8 to 10 before disbanding.

The schedule was already full of delays, and the practice itself hadn’t gone smoothly either. The choreography was so complicated that it made teaching nearly impossible, and the group’s morale had hit rock bottom. Their supposedly cool summer vibe had withered on the spot, fast-tracked straight into autumn.

Take Huang Yueru, for example—he was so mentally wrecked by the choreography that he had a mini breakdown. Lai Yudong had to quietly drag him back from the corner to rejoin the group three or four times, patiently offering silent comfort through actions rather than words, just to help him barely pull himself together.

Then there was Zeng Kai, who left in the middle of practice without saying a word. Lai Yudong and Zhao Yifeng had to split up and search all over, eventually finding him chatting with other people in the All Night group’s practice room.

And that wasn’t even counting the others who were only marginally more dependable—not worth going into one by one.

Maybe the half-dead energy of their group was just that palpable, because even the neighboring team had caught on. When Su Junzhe clocked out at 2 a.m., he gave both of them a pat on the shoulder and said, “Keep going—you two are definitely gonna be fine.”

Lai Yudong thought bleakly: Even if we two are fine, what about the others?

Specifically, the ones who had left right on the dot at 10.

Still, he truly appreciated Su Junzhe’s encouragement—it was one of the rare moments of warmth he’d experienced all day.

Before they could leave the practice room, there was one final thing to do—and no, it wasn’t just turning off the lights or locking the door.

The two overworked comrades-in-arms had to squeeze into the cramped self-recording booth to film their mandatory end-of-day diary, as required by the production team after each practice session.

The process involved speaking directly to the overhead camera—reporting on the day’s progress or sharing some personal thoughts. It served as a kind of emotional outlet, or a one-sided conversation with the Starseekers, and was often edited into the main show as footage.

“End of shift!” Zhou Rui waved both hands at the camera. He did his best to mask his fatigue, putting on a cheerful, professional tone for the recording. “I hope Yuki and I can make it to the second performance round together.”

[Zhou Rui, you’re way too quiet!!!]

[It’s late at night, gotta keep it down lol]

[How many people are even in that building to be disturbed??]

[I get it, I instinctively whisper at night too]

The complaints scrolled past on the screen. Lai Yudong, acting as the human teleprompter, leaned over and reminded him, “You’re speaking too softly.”

“Then I’ll speak louder?” Zhou Rui took a deep breath and practically shouted, his voice booming, “I HOPE YUKI AND I CAN MAKE IT TO SECOND ROUND—!!”

“…Maybe not that loud.”

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