Chapter 34.2: First Performance (7)
“You two were the first to learn the choreography. You’re more familiar with it than the rest of us, but you still practice for hours more than we do every day,” Zeng Kai explained.
“I’m not saying extra practice is wrong—Zhao Yifeng and Chu Tianyi manage it just fine—but you two stay up so late that you get less sleep, your condition suffers, and on top of that, it puts pressure on the rest of us.
We’re supposed to be a team, but when you two act like your own little duo, it hurts the group dynamic.”
[I’m dying laughing.]
[Can someone explain Zeng Kai’s logic to me?]
[If you don’t understand, congratulations—you’re normal.]
[Maybe he thinks this is like over-studying for a test…?]
[I give up on understanding. Just eliminate him in round one, thanks.]
Lai Yudong: “…”
All that effort just to cook up some nonsense about them being in “bad condition”—how exhausting.
Might as well just say you don’t like me. At least that’d be more straightforward.
Zeng Kai’s wonderfully absurd speech managed to outshine even Zhao Yifeng’s bluntness, plunging the room into stunned silence—though it was possible a few of them actually agreed with him.
As one of the accused, Lai Yudong was the first to break the silence.
He responded with a polite smile:
“Mm. You’re absolutely right.”
It was so ridiculous, he couldn’t even bring himself to be mad.
He decided to treat this whole ordeal as a side quest in his tribulation trial.
After all, if you survive the tribulation—you ascend.
System: [Host, there is no such side quest.]
Lai Yudong: [I told you—don’t interfere.]
The group discussion ended just as awkwardly as it began.
And while both Zhao Yifeng and Zeng Kai made brutally blunt comments without caring about public image, Zhao Yifeng actually managed to recover his reputation a bit, while Zeng Kai only dug himself deeper.
Fortunately, the feedback from practice showed some improvement.
That night, the group extended practice until 11 PM.
Their focus in class was noticeably better.
No one wandered around like a half-dead zombie drifting from indoors to outdoors anymore.
This more functional state lasted two days.
Then came the third day—the day of the full group rehearsal.
—
All the trainees arrived by bus at the filming location for the performance stage. Aside from another evaluation of each group’s practice progress, they also needed to familiarize themselves with the day’s schedule, stage positions, and their group’s stage aesthetics.
Offstage, the seating for Group A of “Peppermint” and Group B of “All Night” were next to each other, placing Lai Yudong and Liang Zhisheng, who sat at the edge, side by side.
With nothing to do while the staff prepared, Liang Zhisheng struck up a conversation. “How’s your group doing?”
He was the one in Dorm 707 who knew the most about what had actually happened, since the practice room Zeng Kai had randomly barged into that day belonged to their group. He ended up chatting and laughing with members of both Group A and B for quite a while, until Zhao Yifeng dragged him back.
“We’re doing okay,” Lai Yudong replied, the most he could say. “How about you guys?”
“Pretty good. Everything’s been sorted out.”
Everyone in Liang Zhisheng’s group was straightforward — they’d argue today and make up tomorrow. One moment the tension was so thick you’d think they’d forgotten they were on a show, and the next they’d be joking around with arms around each other like long-lost brothers. The contrast was so jarring that viewers who hadn’t followed every livestream felt like they’d skipped at least ten episodes.
In a way, they were quite the legendary group.
Many of the group rehearsals looked solid overall. A few groups stood out in particular — their charm shining through even in the standard uniforms with name tags. But there were also a few that flopped, practically sleepwalking through their performances.
The last group to take the stage was Group “Peppermint.” Lai Yudong’s Group A went up first, and Zhao Yifeng volunteered to use a handheld mic.
Because there were several unpredictable members in the group, they spent the entire performance dancing dangerously close to disaster. Fortunately, they made it through without incident, and their performance ranked somewhere between average and below average among the thirteen groups that had rehearsed.
The eight of them stood in a row on stage, waiting for the mentors below to give their feedback.
[This group feels weird. Aside from Miura and Luo Feiran being weak, the others aren’t that bad, but as a whole, they’re really uncoordinated.]
[My standards are low—I’m just glad Yuzu didn’t get knocked off the stage.]
[Yuzu isn’t even the worst one here. He’s okay in this group, right?]
As long as he wasn’t the worst, that was enough.
Lai Yudong stood in place, breathing lightly. It was just a rehearsal, but his heart was already pounding out of his chest. He didn’t even dare imagine how nervous he’d be on the actual performance day.
The dance instructor, Cao Yan, lifted the mic:
“Overall, it’s a bit better than a few days ago, but the dance is messy and rushed. I didn’t feel the light, fresh vibe this song is supposed to have.”
[The original track is minty-fresh; this group feels like a Tiger Balm warehouse flooded with water.]
[The Tiger Balm flooded a dragon king’s temple.]
[I was on edge the whole time, afraid they’d step on each other.]
“The harmonies were also a mess,” added mentor Wu Xihe. “While the song didn’t sound outright terrible, the gap between the main vocal and the rest of the group is huge. It comes across like the main vocal is dragging the whole team along. But your harmonies actually pulled down the main vocal’s parts—one of the few highlights got drowned out.”
Zhao Yifeng tilted his head back, zoning out. He tried hard not to let his expression look too pleased, so no one would think he was mocking anyone.
Being held back by your teammates’ vocals was a different kind of pain.
Mentor Li Ke glanced down at the lyric sheet, cross-checking the lines and names.
“Chu Tianyi’s rap was decent—if you could smooth it out just a bit more, it’d be better.”
Chu Tianyi gave a small smile. “Thank you, Teacher Li Ke.”
“The two sub-rappers still need work, especially Luo Feiran—he keeps losing the beat.”
“The center can’t really command the stage.” Mentor Zhu Xiuming, who was an actor by trade, commented from a stage presence angle. “Zhou Rui, you need to draw the audience’s attention to yourself. You can’t just stand there and let all the focus scatter to the people behind you.”
Lai Yudong glanced at Zhou Rui, who was hanging his head, and reached out from behind to gently pat him on the back—hoping the small gesture might offer a bit of comfort.
[No offense, but is this really Zhou Rui’s fault?]
[A huge bouncing Yuzu in the back—how are we not supposed to look at him?]
[My eyes were glued to Yuzu’s face the whole time.]
[Zhou Rui just can’t hold the stage. If Mo Li were center instead, no one’s attention would wander like that.]
Show founder Fu Hanyu chimed in:
“Mm, Yuki’s facial control was solid—really eye-catching. The dancing still needs more work, but the progress is obvious. Keep it up.”
Lai Yudong let out a breath of relief. “Thank you, Teacher.”
All that time he’d spent using every break to frantically practice his expressions in front of the camera had paid off. He’d even designed small facial cues based on the lyrics.
Facial control really was important.
Group A exited the stage, and Group B went up. As expected, the comparison was brutal—their impeccable lineup delivered a performance nearly on par with the original track. Group A had no chance of winning.
“What the hell did we practice for all these days? Just to be the background?” Luo Feiran complained from off-camera, full of sighs.
“You’re only realizing that now?” Zeng Kai said, clearly annoyed. “I told you we shouldn’t pick this song, and you guys argued with me.”
As the mood in the group grew heavier, Zhou Rui forced himself to rally: “Winning comes second. What matters most is showing who you are. Doing your absolute best and leaving no regrets on stage—that’s more important than anything else.”
Shu Tengjie added, in a tone more like fulfilling a routine than actually encouraging: “Final day. Let’s give it our all.”
…
After rehearsal, the production team handed out a new task: each group was required to record a practice room version of their performance and submit it to their assigned PD by 10:00 PM tonight.
By the time the bus brought them back from the shoot, it was already 8:00 PM. Time was running out.
As soon as Lai Yudong and the others got off the bus, they rushed straight to the practice room. They recorded seven or eight takes in total, only stopping when some teammates were so hungry they physically couldn’t keep dancing. In the end, they submitted the best version.
There was only one day left until the first public performance.
Lai Yudong kept Liang Zhisheng’s advice in mind: the day before the performance, get some rest early and do a face mask to be in top form for the stage. So at 2 a.m., he left the practice room “early,” planning to review more after a proper sleep.
At that hour, many trainees were also heading out, and even more fans were waiting outside. Yet, among all the noise, the voices cheering for him still broke through the distance and reached his ears.
“Yuzu!!”
“Good luck on the performance! We’ll always support you!”
“Can’t wait to see your stage!”
“We’ve seen how hard you’ve been working!”
Strong. Clear. Passionate.
Those voices always seemed to refill his energy whenever exhaustion hit—like a stream once dried up, now flowing freely again with fresh water.
Part of him still felt it wasn’t worth it for them to cheer so hard for someone like him, someone not yet strong. But another part of him had grown addicted—craving to hear his name called every time he stepped out of the building, as if those calls helped make the path ahead feel a little clearer.
Fans…
Could he really call them fans?
The word didn’t quite feel real to him.
Through the cold, impersonal bullet comments, he couldn’t imagine the emotions behind the words. The distance was too great; all he could see was a blur of lights.
Maybe… everything would become clear once he stood on stage.
…
On the day of the first public performance, the trainees arrived at the specially constructed filming set five hours early, gathering to get their hair and makeup done and change into their stage outfits. That evening, at 8 p.m., they would appear onstage in front of the Starseekers for the very first time.
Inside, everything was buzzing with preparations.
Outside, things were just as lively.
Around 1,000 Starseekers who had won audience slots arrived on site—most of them were girls. Nearly everyone was holding slogan banners and light sticks with their favorite trainee’s name. The queue stretched endlessly from the ticket gate, and those at the very front had shown up even earlier than the trainees themselves.
[Crying, I want to be there too.]
[I roped in my entire family group chat and dorm group to register, and still didn’t get picked.]
[People arrived this early? Isn’t there still a lot of time before the show starts?]
[The ones at the front clearly haven’t been to many offline events, haha.]
Staff from Climbing to Stardom went around interviewing attendees, selecting lucky fans to ask who they were supporting.
“Mo Li has to debut as center!”
“I can’t eat or sleep without seeing Su Junzhe every day!”
“My love for Yuki is subjective—but his beauty is objective!”
“Please appreciate our male lead from Whispers of Love, Jiang Yangfan!”
The fans were overflowing with excitement, nearly shoving their banners—plastered with names and faces—into the camera, eager for everyone else to witness their bias’s visuals and popularity. On the other side of the screen, viewers watching the livestream couldn’t help but shed tears of envy.
Half an hour before showtime, the audience began filing into the venue. Thanks to marketing teasers and trending posts, the livestream viewership kept climbing steadily.
[Has it started yet? Why’s it still a black screen?]
[Two more minutes.]
[I’m more nervous than the contestants, help.]
[Countdown time!]
Time inched forward under the pressure of thousands of anxious eyes, drawing closer and closer to the performance.
57… 58… 59…
21:00.
—It’s time!
The pitch-black stage lit up in an instant, and the show’s founder walked out from a tunnel that looked like a passage through space and time. A wave of screams erupted from the audience—the popularity of this first-generation boy group member far surpassed any trainee present.
Fu Hanyu, ever composed in front of large crowds, lifted the mic with ease, his face wearing a textbook-perfect smile.
“Starseekers, welcome to the recording site of Climbing to Stardom’s very first public performance. I’m your founder, Fu Hanyu, and I’m delighted to see you all.”
“This performance is a group-versus-group evaluation. There are a total of seven songs, each performed in a head-to-head matchup. Our 1,000 Starseekers in attendance will vote by pressing a button to choose either Group A or Group B, and then cast a second vote for one trainee within that group. If there’s no one you wish to vote for, you may also choose to abstain.”
[Wait, you can only pick one trainee per group?]
[Ugh, this rule’s going to split the votes in the popular groups.]
[Can’t have it both ways—you either win the group vote or maximize individual votes, pick one.]
[Doesn’t this kind of disadvantage the groups with more members?]
[Not really—since total votes don’t change, the extra members just divide what’s left.]
Fu Hanyu continued, “The group with the highest total vote count will be declared the winner. The winning group, along with the highest-voted trainee from that group, will receive additional bonus votes, which will be counted toward the first ranking announcement.”
“And now… go find the star you want to follow.”