Chapter 72: Surprise
Li Ying and Shao Meng locked eyes: “……”
What was this—a sudden twist of fate?
Verse’s unexpected outburst only deepened their stereotypical impression of rappers: ashamed of having a high level of education, proud of having low emotional intelligence.
—Though Li Ying and Shao Meng weren’t exactly highly educated themselves, at least they weren’t like Verse, who couldn’t even hold on to a golden opportunity falling into his lap.
Verse thought he was delivering a measured, tactful critique, but from a third-party perspective, he was clearly targeting Yue Zhaolin on purpose.
Just look at the reaction from the scene—after Verse finished speaking, the whole place erupted into noisy chatter.
It was Tan Shen from the Playing with Ambiguity group who said, “…That was so abstract, it’s like he’s flirting with abstraction itself.”
Rap was Tan Shen’s comfort zone. He hadn’t had the chance to show off in front of Yue Zhaolin, let alone act as his rap mentor—before he knew it, Yue Zhaolin had already flown away.
Tan Shen couldn’t help but let out an exasperated laugh.
He raised his hand, about to ask whether a contestant could quit the group, when the voice of the on-site director came over the speakers, announcing a five-minute recording break.
Verse was called away.
…
Verse’s manager asked sharply, “Why did you kick Yue Zhaolin out? Do you even realize he’s the hottest trending idol right now…”
“So what if he is?”
Verse clicked his tongue.
He had wanted to collaborate with Yue Zhaolin during the second performance round, but later a friend reminded him that doing so would make him look like a total bootlicker—and his fans might start unfollowing.
Besides, plenty of rappers had tried stepping on trending idols to climb up—had any of them really made it?
The manager: “……”
She took a deep breath, her tone eerily calm:
“In the past few years, have you seen your fellow rappers publicly diss any trending idol by name?”
Ten years ago, sure—there were rappers bold enough to name names and call people out. But in recent years, the so-called authenticity of rappers had long since bowed to the power of popularity.
Even in that rap competition show Verse had been on, weren’t the mentors also traffic idols?
“And by rejecting Yue Zhaolin, you’re also rejecting a chance to break into the mainstream. Do you even know how high the view count was on Yue Zhaolin’s first performance stage?”
“It might help your image to act like you’re above the hype, sure—those male fans who look down on idol culture might even put you on a pedestal. But have you thought about the long term?”
What carries more weight—appeasing a subset of male fans, or having a breakout hit that defines your career?
Verse’s face stiffened: “…” He started to panic.
“…What do I do? Mo Li, help me. You… you go apologize for me?”
“You’re my manager—just tell Yue Zhaolin it was all your idea. Say I wasn’t actually trying to target him.”
Mo Li: “…”
She was so done with this job.
—
Two minutes later.
Watching the manager bow and apologize, with Verse shrinking behind her, Yue Zhaolin raised a brow slightly.
“Oh? Is that so?”
“I heard the apology.”
Verse’s eyes lit up—he thought the whole public embarrassment incident had blown over. Acting all buddy-buddy, he reached out to sling an arm around Yue Zhaolin’s shoulder.
But suddenly, Yue Zhaolin spoke up: “Perhaps you didn’t know—I’m a bit of a germaphobe.”
Verse: “…What?”
Yue Zhaolin gave a relaxed shrug.
“Sorry, I don’t do second chances.”
Just because someone apologized—did that mean he had to forgive them?
The power to decide was his, wasn’t it?
Yue Zhaolin turned to leave. As he pulled the door open, his steps paused slightly.
“Actually, more shameful than a clumsy lie is hiding behind a woman.”
“Is your so-called ‘keep it real’ code a bit too… flexible?”
Bang.
The door slammed shut.
Verse’s face flushed bright red.
“That little brat—he’s gone too far! Mo Li, get in touch with the boys from the scene—let’s teach him a lesson!”
Mo Li: “…”
Stop barking.
Unlike the ever-busy Ni Yanzhen, Verse had too much time on his hands. He was stuck in a full-season contract—couldn’t quit, couldn’t afford the breach penalty either.
Appeal to the production team to cut that footage? Not a chance.
Sacrificing Verse made for explosive content—there was no way they’d pass that up.
Once the song-picking segment aired, Yue Zhaolin’s fans would rip Verse to shreds. It was already public knowledge that most rappers in the scene weren’t exactly squeaky clean.
And it was his own fault—listening to his bros over his manager, making her take the fall, only to get exposed in the end. Embarrassing.
Well, he was on his own now.
She’d already decided to quit.
—
When Yue Zhaolin returned to the main hall, he was greeted with a roomful of stares from the other trainees.
Tan Shen: “How’d it go?”
While Yue Zhaolin had been gone, Tan Shen had checked with the directors—trainees weren’t allowed to switch groups. He’d been sulking ever since.
Yue Zhaolin: “I’m picking a new group.”
Tan Shen opened his mouth, about to speak, but Yue Zhaolin cut in: “That song suits you. So… crush him. Can you do that?”
Tan Shen: “…Huh?”
“Yeah.”
Not to hype or hate—technically speaking, Verse had stronger rap fundamentals than Tan Shen.
But Tan Shen’s naturally rhythmic flow and polished, Westernized enunciation made his delivery incredibly catchy.
How could he ignore a direct order from the king?
He was all in.
—
Before long, Verse returned to the studio with a forced smile on his face.
Everyone pretended nothing had happened—eyes down, poker faces on.
Back to the schedule.
Once the interrupted “kicking out” segment was re-recorded, a total of eight trainees stepped forward to stand beside Yue Zhaolin, facing the teams across from them.
Li Ying announced:
“These nine trainees may now choose any other group. However—”
Cue the plot twist:
“They might get kicked out again.”
If rejected a second time, they’d only be allowed to join a group with remaining slots.
A psychological ordeal, no doubt.
Except for Yue Zhaolin.
Li Ying smiled: “Yue Zhaolin, please step forward. Do you have a group in mind?”
Across from him, some trainees had already prayed to every deity they could think of—
“Buddha, Jesus, Lady Luck—please let the Moon God descend upon our group.”
Jia Ge said: “Red Velvet and Rings is a really interesting song. I believe you’d do an amazing job with it. Want to try a new style?”
Rap mentor Nana quickly reached out to block his view of Yue Zhaolin. “Teacher Jia, foul! No recruiting allowed!”
Shao Meng: “Well then, I’m putting in a vote for Five Senses and Six Perceptions.”
“In that case, count Puppet on Strings in, too?”
Chaos broke out among the mentors—except Verse.
Verse, for the second time that day, was reminded of something crystal clear: The power had always been in Yue Zhaolin’s hands.
It was never about the mentors choosing him—
He was the one choosing them.
Vocal mentor Jia Ge finally waved his hand and said: “Alright, alright. The choice is Yue Zhaolin’s. Let’s stop fighting over him, yeah?”
Jia Ge: “So, Zhaolin, have you decided which song you want to pick?”
Yue Zhaolin looked at the expectant mentors across from him, then smiled and said, “Yes, I’ve made up my mind. I want to join—PD Li’s Puppet on Strings.”
“Huh?!”
“He picked Puppet on Strings!
“Ah…”
Someone sighed in disappointment.
“I was hoping he’d join our AI group. Guess the prayers didn’t work.”
Yue Zhaolin had considered AI.
But since he’d already performed a cyberpunk-inspired dance back at the music festival debut, he placed AI in his second tier of choices.
Puppet on Strings had eerie, surreal lyrics with a melodic rap style—smooth, natural, and overall very pleasing to the ear.
The choreography included a puppet dance with two dancers, one in front and one behind, with a high density of popping and even a triple backbend segment—visually striking.
What’s more, Puppet on Strings lent itself well to styling reminiscent of BJD (ball-jointed doll) aesthetics—excessively delicate, with an almost inhuman quality.
And paired with that eerie music, the more refined and doll-like the look, the stronger the emotional impact of the final segment—when the puppet breaks free from its strings.
When Rong Ruize heard that the core of Puppet Strings had arrived, he practically exploded with joy.
“No way, really?! That’s amazing—so awesome—”
“……”
The sudden burst of Taiwanese accent broke the tension in the room, making everyone laugh.
Rong Ruize didn’t mind in the least. He strode over to Yue Zhaolin amid the laughter, cheerfully “escorting” him back to the group.
Yue Zhaolin smiled and greeted everyone.
This team was full of familiar faces—Chu Li, Cen Chi, Rong Ruize, Fu Xunying—no introductions needed.
There was also Chen Wu, who Yue Zhaolin remembered as an exceptionally strong street dancer—during the theme song’s center position battle, he had only lost to Chu Li’s classical dance performance.
When Yue Zhaolin chose Li Ying’s Puppet on Strings, Shao Meng couldn’t hide his disappointment.
The lyrics and melody of his own group’s song had been fully produced by a Grammy-winning producer, and the choreography was done by a Korean choreographer—so where had he fallen short?
Not to mention, he and Yue Zhaolin had a senior-junior relationship. Wasn’t Yue Zhaolin even going to show him that much courtesy?
Meanwhile, Li Ying, who had been holding his breath, finally relaxed. A smile returned to his face.
“Welcome to the Puppet on Strings group, Zhaolin.”
Everyone applauded.
The following group selection and second elimination rounds were sped up, and the final lineup was confirmed within ten minutes.
Puppet on Strings ended up with the same six members as before—no additions, no dropouts:
Fu Xunying, Cen Chi, Chu Li, Rong Ruize, Chen Wu, and Yue Zhaolin.
Six out of the current top ten rankings—other groups joked that it was basically a high-rank summit meeting.
With group assignments done, it was time to dive into rehearsals.
While Puppet on Strings didn’t have as many popping elements as AI, it still required a solid grasp of the style.
Anyone without a popping foundation—or with a weak one—had to start from the basics.
Learning fundamentals first made breaking down choreography a lot easier.
Li Ying led the trainees to a separate practice room and, delegating wisely, called out:
“Chen Wu, come lead them. Let’s all practice together.”
In terms of popping, Chen Wu was the real deal.
“Got it.”
Chen Wu was highly skilled and down-to-earth. He never exaggerated his reactions just to get camera time, but he also wasn’t the silent type.
“Let’s start with a chest pop. Everyone show me your chest isolations.”
Chen Wu caught a glimpse of Yue Zhaolin’s movement—it was quite good, but there was still a bit of compensation coming from the shoulders, which was a common mistake.
“Zhaolin, for this muscle here…”
He reached out as he spoke.
Fu Xunying quickly cut in: “He’s a germaphobe—doesn’t like being touched.”
“Oh, got it,” Chen Wu nodded in understanding, then puffed out his own chest generously. “No problem. You can touch me instead if you need to feel the muscle.”
Yue Zhaolin: “…Thanks.”
He would work hard to learn.
…Yep.
—
Li Ying stayed with their group for two hours before leaving for another schedule.
The rest of the group continued practicing. Their progress wasn’t bad.
Yue Zhaolin focused on training precise, isolated muscle engagement and adding explosive groove to his movements.
His body now felt like stretched noodles—limp and sore all over.
Late at night, everyone was drenched in sweat and completely spent.
When they saw it was nearly 11 p.m., they started packing up to return to the dorms.
As Chen Wu slung his bag over his shoulder and headed out, Chu Li stopped him.
“Brother Wu, wait a sec. We should wash our faces before going out—there are fans waiting outside.”
Even though they weren’t his fans.
—They were Yue Zhaolin’s.
Chen Wu: “Alright, alright.”
Sure enough, the six of them stepped out the front doors in a group, and the sound of camera shutters firing like sniper shots—click, click, click—filled the air.
Flashes popped all around them.
Yue Zhaolin was already used to it. He smiled and waved in the direction of the lights.
The Tide fanbase members gathered at the gate counted down together:
“Three, two, one—Zhaolin, look east after you get back to the dorm!”
“East?”
Yue Zhaolin blinked and immediately asked, “Which way is east?”
He had no sense of direction—didn’t know north, south, east, or west. He only recognized left, right, front, and back.
“East is just a bit to the right from your dorm’s entrance, facing the main gate!”
“That way—turn right from here!”
“You have to look! It’s a surprise—”
The fans all raised their arms, gesturing wildly in the air.
From Yue Zhaolin’s point of view, they looked like seaweed swaying against the backlight.
He couldn’t help but smile, then nodded.
“Alright, got it.”
After waving goodbye to the Tide fans, he got into the car heading back to the dorm, his whole body practically humming with cheerful anticipation.
‘What kind of surprise could it be?’ he wondered.
Fu Xunying offered, “I think there’s a window at the end of the east hallway. Want me to go with you to check?”
“No need.”
Yue Zhaolin shook his head.
He wanted to see it for himself.
When he got back to the dorm building, the digital clock on the wall read 11:07.
Yue Zhaolin went to find the dorm supervisor and asked if he could go up to the rooftop.
“Of course,” the supervisor replied.
They’d already received notice in advance—and two camera operators would be joining him as well.
Yue Zhaolin: “?”
He sensed something was up.
His steps quickened as he entered the elevator.
Even though it was moving upward, the ride felt excruciatingly slow.
When Yue Zhaolin finally pushed open the rooftop door, the first thing he felt was the wind—refreshing, cool night air.
He looked around, trying to spot the starlight building to get his bearings—
But then he noticed something glowing.
Floating in the sky—a countdown.
[11:13:59]
[11:14:00]
[11:14:01]
The numbers changed with every passing second—
Digits formed in the air by flying drones.
As he watched the seconds tick by, his eardrums filled with the sound of his own heartbeat.
[11:14:58]
[11:14:59]
[11:15]
The time display suddenly lost its seconds, leaving behind just “11:15″—both the time and the date, November 15th. Yue Zhaolin’s birthday.
Then, a sea of silvery-blue light surged up and washed over the numbers. Points of light flickered on and off, shifting their patterns like the rhythmic tides on the surface of the ocean.
From the blue-silver tides emerged a trace of pale yellow. It grew larger and brighter.
It was the moon.
Yue Zhaolin let out a soft laugh.
The drone performance wasn’t over. The formation shifted again, first sketching out Yue Zhaolin’s “god-tier three seconds” look—complete with the bite-blocker and utility uniform.
Then came Yue Zhaolin during his initial evaluation.
Next, him in a baseball jacket mid-move during the theme song’s chorus.
From the first performance, wearing a polar bear headpiece.
From the fan meeting, a snapshot of Yue Zhaolin holding up a black cat—“human and cat” captured together.
From the Soda Festival, in a dress shirt and gold-rimmed glasses.
And finally, from the end of episode seven—just a lone figure in historical costume, seen only from the back.
As he watched, Yue Zhaolin’s smile softened. His eyes brimmed with emotion.
Scene after scene, moment after moment—they were the journey he had walked, with Tide by his side every step of the way.
Something swelled in his throat, rising and urgent, like a butterfly trapped in his chest, beating its wings in every direction.
“……”
A few seconds later, the drones shifted once more.
A line of text floated into view:
[Yue Zhaolin × Tide — Happy 52nd-Daysary]
Above it, a giant glowing red heart.