Chapter 73: A Threat to Tan Shen
The drone show took place over the wide expanse of Jinshan Bay. Each performance lasted three minutes, and the entire display went on for fifteen minutes.
When the drones first lit up, people nearby were murmuring, “Who’s the rich guy using drones to confess this time?”
Why the assumption?
Because Jinshan Bay had recently become a popular hotspot for multiple drone confession shows—each from a different person. It was practically turning into a dedicated confession check-in spot.
As the drones rose into the sky and displayed a specific time, someone clicked their tongue and said, “I’ll bet a bag of spicy strips that the time means something.”
Sure enough, the numbers froze at 11:15.
But what followed was entirely unexpected. There were no names—instead, the sky filled with a blue-silver tide encircling a moon.
It was beautiful. Many passersby stopped in their tracks and took out their phones to record it.
Next came a series of silhouettes formed by the drones. They only showed outlines, no facial features, but the clothing details were illustrated with light points.
The silhouettes changed several times, each with slow, vivid movements.
Someone chuckled, “These figures are all guys, right? Not bad. It’s always rich dudes confessing—finally a rich lady’s turn.”
“Rich lady, please sponsor me.”
“Anyone able to dig up this rich lady’s Douyin account?”
Until the message appeared:
[Yue Zhaolin × Tide — Happy 52nd Daysary]
“Yue Zhaolin?”
“Wait, is that the Yue Zhaolin I’m thinking of? The one who’s really popular on Douyin? Isn’t he an idol? Who’s Chaoxi(Tide)—his girlfriend?”
A fan of Tide who had come to watch the show loudly clarified: “Tide is his fan—!”
An auntie wearing a silk scarf exclaimed, “Huh? A fan celebrating a 52nd Daysary with a celebrity? That’s a first for me. Can he even see it?”
“He can!”
—
Elsewhere.
A fansite master had already propped up a camera as big as a cannon, aimed at the corridor window of the dorm building for Starlight trainees, but after searching for ages, she saw no sign of him.
“Where is he? Where is he?”
“On the rooftop!”
Upon hearing that, He Jie quickly raised the camera, searching the rooftop—and the person she was looking for suddenly appeared in the lens, catching her off guard.
It was Yue Zhaolin in a short-sleeved shirt, his hair ruffled by the evening breeze. His face was bare, no makeup at all. Pale skin, naturally red lips—completely pristine.
He looked unrealistically beautiful.
As light and shadow passed across his smiling face, the smile itself wasn’t big, but his eyes were entirely different from usual—like a silent tsunami that pulled people under.
In a daze, the lens seemed to capture a fleeting shimmer of watery brilliance in those stunning eyes.
Uncontrollable emotions surged in her chest—bitterness, heat, and something else tangled together. Watching this, He Jie’s thoughts became a blur.
Was… was that a tear?
—
The next day.
#YueZhaolinCried climbed to the top of the trending topics.
Though the hashtag sounded like the usual clickbait, not a single comment mocked him with things like “Can a celebrity making 2.08 million a day stop pretending to be miserable?”
[If all C-ent idols’ fans were like this, I’d never badmouth the industry again]
[Who gets it? A celeb showing that kind of expression because he saw a fan support show—this is like a horror movie in C-ent, never seen it before]
[Such a genuine expression. Doesn’t feel like acting (and if it was acting, that’s even scarier)]
[A clean, beautiful face, windblown hair, sparkling mist in his eyes—like a first love straight out of a dream.]
[Now this is what I call a true soldier of pure love.]
[Yue Zhaolin, from this moment on, you’ve earned a one-time immunity from a scandal in my book.]
[I’m just a casual viewer and I cried—how are his fans holding up?]
Tide had been sobbing all night.
The fan group atmosphere could only be described as a wailing wasteland—crying while frantically spending money. The top-up bars had been soaring since the night before.
Yue Zhaolin’s reaction made them feel like their devotion was truly cherished. The fan group’s core loyalty hit maximum.
Some Tide fans were secretly simping in fan meet chats, drooling over his visuals—because Yue Zhaolin, with misty eyes, looked maddeningly beautiful.
Not appreciating this should be a crime!
Even a full day later, the emotionally wrecked Tide were still restless and unfocused. One of them decided to channel the energy:
“Final night will be livestreamed, and the audience will definitely be shown on camera. Our official support color is blue-silver—so let’s get started on our light boards.”
By then, the screen would be filled with a sea of blue-silver light.
It must be.
—
[Goose Gossip Group | Halfway through the season, and the final night livestream venue has been confirmed]
———
[Original Post]
RT.
I saw the blogger post the filing notice—final night will be at Hongyuan Stadium. It’s huge: three-side stage seats 15,000, four-side can hit 20,000.
Is Starlight planning something massive?
[4F] Whether Starlight is or not, cxj (Chaoxi-Jie/Tide Sister) definitely is. After all, Yue hasn’t debuted yet, and cxj already pulled out drones.
And that was just one fansite who arranged it!
Speaking of this, I’m honestly bitter—so many ex-fansite masters just produce overpriced merch, scam people for money, and disappear.
Even reporting them to the police doesn’t work. If the scammer is underage, it’s practically game over (lol).
[7F] +1, a lesson learned in blood and tears…
[9F] That fansite sold a ton of merch. The number of orders would count as a best-seller on Taobao. It’s not surprising if the profits covered the cost of the drone show.
[15F] An animated drone performance starts at 800,000 minimum. The main thing is that the fansite was actually willing to spend that kind of money. They’re basically saints of the fan world. (lol)
[24F] If you did this in a small town, it’s equivalent to throwing away two apartments’ worth of money—but in cxj’s eyes, totally worth it. That fleeting moment in Yue’s eyes, like a tear or a flash of light…
It’s the ambiguity that makes it beautiful.
[30F] That scene was really touching.
But from the official Starlight Douyin angle, Moon was filmed like the male lead of an idol drama, and a bunch of clueless Douyin users were asking what show it was from.
[42F] Honestly, Moon wouldn’t have a problem acting in an idol drama—just imagine the female lead is one of his fans. That’s basically playing himself. (lol)
His gaze alone is more convincing than both XX and XXX combined.
[56F] My brain already supplied names.JPG
[61F] Even beauty vloggers act better than those guys—crying and sniffling in their apology vids, at least they look more sincere.
[68F] Replying to 61: Who?
[73F] It was that beauty vlogger “Model Auntie” who posted on Douyin accusing Yue Zhaolin of intentionally ignoring him at the Qishui Festival. He was trying to stir drama and get clout off Moon—but turns out he wasn’t so clean either. His old posts were absolutely vile, especially toward women.
Tide made a whole PowerPoint presentation exposing him. Just as they started circulating it, he instantly caved and apologized. His apology post is now pinned—turn on the bullet comments and enjoy, it’s a feast.
[81F] Just watched it. The way he talks is filthy… If he hates women that much, why use “Auntie” in his username?
[93F] Women might be more tolerant of gay men due to their orientation, but some gay guys are actually more misogynistic than straight men.
[121F] There were plenty of people at that event who didn’t get noticed—he zeroed in on Yue Zhaolin. Aside from trying to create drama, there’s definitely a dose of male jealousy at play.
[130F] I’m not a Moon fan, but I have to say that guy was punching way above his weight trying to start something.
[141F] Honestly, Moon’s top-energy image should attract gay 0 (bottom) fans, but strangely, most of the gay influencers I know don’t like him.
Can’t explain why. Just a gut feeling.
[148F] Do gay people have some kind of shared Bluetooth?
Why are all their instincts the same?
—
“I actually really like Yue Zhaolin. Doesn’t that contradict your theory? So rest assured—I’m definitely not gay.”
Yue Zhaolin: “…?”
It was Tan Shen’s voice.
Yue Zhaolin, holding a water cup, glanced around and realized the voice was coming from outside the break room window—Tan Shen was on a call next door?
Tan Shen continued, “Why’re you suddenly asking this? Did you go browsing those trashy forums again?”
Hearing footsteps by the door, Yue Zhaolin gave a small cough: “Ahem—”
Next door went instantly silent.
The trainee entering the break room was one of the upper-rankers, Zhu Zhu, the elusive type. Yue Zhaolin greeted him, filled his cup, and headed out.
Outside, Tan Shen was waiting.
As the two walked off together, Tan Shen clicked his tongue:
“I only cracked the window open a sliver for some fresh air—how was my voice still that loud?”
Yue Zhaolin wasn’t in the habit of eavesdropping on other people’s calls, but since he’d heard it, he decided to tell Tan Shen what he’d caught.
“I only heard those two lines.”
Tan Shen had one hand in his pocket and shook his head. His voice was a little dry from all the rap practice.
“It’s fine. I should be the one apologizing—you got dragged into something.”
The person on the other end of the call had been Tan Shen’s mother.
Tan Shen hadn’t grown up with his parents and didn’t have much of a relationship with them. One worked in the fashion industry, the other liked to explore faraway places. Both chased their own desires and freedom, and Tan Shen had never been a high priority in their lives. He’d felt disappointed in the past, but eventually came to terms with it.
But things changed after his mother developed dementia. In her memories, Tan Shen was still a few years younger. She started trying to connect with him, make conversation, and get involved in his life.
The reason Tan Shen had been called away a few times recently was because she’d been frequently contacting the trainee coordinator, who thought there was some family emergency.
“Honestly, I’ve always thought I had it pretty good. I never lacked money, I looked decent, and getting into modeling—I could walk the big shows just by pulling some strings.”
Tan Shen let out a sigh.
Now? He didn’t know how to feel.
“By the way, do you want to walk a runway?” Tan Shen said impulsively, “My dad still has some solid connections. It’d be a waste not to use them.”
Yue Zhaolin: “?”
How did the conversation end up here?
He’d been insanely busy lately—preparing for the third public performance while also attending a crash course in acting specifically for his cameo in Forbidden Timespace.
He was squeezing two days into one.
Tan Shen knew he was stretched thin, his nerves frayed, so after a bit of random rambling, he asked,
“What do you want to eat later? I’ll pack something for you.”
At least it would save him a bit of time.
Yue Zhaolin pushed open the practice room door and casually said, “Oh, thanks, but no need—I already asked Mao Ding to bring me something.”
Though “asked” wasn’t exactly accurate—Mao Ding had volunteered himself.
Tan Shen: “?”
He instinctively glanced into the practice room, and maybe it was a trick of the light, but Mao Ding’s bright red hair looked almost blinding under the overhead spotlights.
Mao Ding’s smile was practically radiant:
“Zhaolin, your food’s here. I borrowed a thermal container from the trainee coordinator, so it should still be hot.”
Yue Zhaolin: “Thanks.”
Tan Shen: “?”
Wait, what?
Then Tan Shen noticed something else: besides Mao Ding, Wei Lai was also acting strange. Their attitude toward Yue Zhaolin was… reverent? Was that the right word?
It was as if, should Yue Zhaolin so much as frown at someone, these two would instantly rush out from either side of him and stab that person on the spot.
And just like that, the old servant’s professional security—Tan Shen’s long-standing role as Yue Zhaolin’s reliable helper—suddenly felt very, very threatened.