Chapter 37.2: First Performance (10)
With a personal vote count reaching as high as 138 and tying with the boss-level Mo Li, Lai Yudong wasn’t sure which part was more unbelievable—but he was certain both were completely beyond his expectations.
What was going on? Did overseas contestants come with a built-in 100-vote popularity bonus?
But Qin Xu didn’t get any popularity boost, and it’s not like it was because he wasn’t a “pure-blood” Thai, right?
The shocking vote count had Lai Yudong reeling. His first instinct was to suspect a live broadcast glitch, but since no staff had rushed in, it meant this outrageous vote total was, in fact, his real count.
He wasn’t the strongest in the group, nor the most popular. He was just a C-class trainee ranked 55th.
Was it because he stepped in at the last minute?
That couldn’t be it. Chu Tianyi only got 55 votes—at best, a rescue performance should earn him, what, sixty?
He wasn’t someone who could single-handedly carry the entire group, nor did he perform with a divine, patch-the-sky level of importance. At most, he’d been like someone plugging a leak in a roof with his hands during a storm—rain still seeped through the gaps between his fingers.
Lai Yudong decided to check the live chat to see the viewers’ reactions.
Hopefully, no one was cursing him—and if they were, please let Green Mode be filtering it out.
[Even though our Yuzu totally deserved it, seeing the vote count that high still makes me so happy hahaha]
[Whoa, weren’t there supposedly not that many Yuzu fans at the venue?]
[Miura Yuki’s face alone is worth at least a hundred votes]
[Come on, don’t exaggerate—Qu Xincheng only got a bit over ninety]
[Looks matter, sure, but the important thing is Yuzu’s effort matched the reward. Still, if he’d had more competent teammates, maybe he could’ve gotten even more votes]
[In a way, being in Group A worked in Yuki’s favor—he didn’t have to split the votes with other popular members, and he didn’t have to save anyone on stage either]
[Actually, Peppermint B had too many popular contestants, so their votes got split. Spring Colors A’s performance was great, but they had fewer popular members. That’s why Xu An had more live votes than Mo Li, but ended up ranked lower]
[Maybe it’s because Xu An is more well-known nationally, and has mentor-level skills?]
[But the live voting rules are to vote for the group first, then individuals. Normally people would vote for the original singer’s group—Group B]
[You think everyone knows about that flop-tree boy group? More people definitely know Zhao Yifeng than Mo Li]
A flood of bullet comments popped up at once. Lai Yudong scanned through them quickly at lightning speed, reading ten lines at a glance, and finally extracted the key takeaway:
—Vote splitting.
It was a bit of a stretch to explain why his own vote count had surpassed Zhao Yifeng’s to become the highest in their group, but it was the most reasonable explanation at the moment. If Mo Li had been assigned to Group A instead, he might’ve pulled a Xu An and taken first place with over two hundred votes.
As expected, having a table full of popular contestants was a double-edged sword.
Once all the individual vote counts for both groups were revealed, the screen switched to display the group total votes. A few seconds later, the tally appeared.
Group A: 404 votes.
Group B: 555 votes.
[This group’s vote gap wasn’t the biggest out of all seven performances?]
[The vote gap between the Spring Colors group and the Abs Squad was even larger]
[Get down on your knees and thank Brother Zhao and Brother Yu for saving your dignity]
[Yuzu baby really went through a tribulation, poor thing]
[The vote counts all turned out eerily fitting]
Lai Yudong silently stared at their group’s vote total, struck by a strange sense that fate had arranged it all with deliberate precision.
Another 404.
Too ominous.
As the team returned to the lounge, Lai Yudong sat back in his original spot. Beside him, Liang Zhisheng pulled him into a warm, parent-like hug, the way someone would greet a child after school—comforting with a hint of teasing.
“Poor little unlucky one, good job out there.”
With the dual pressure of his teammates and the ever-present cameras, Lai Yudong couldn’t say much. He could only return the hug helplessly.
[Liang Zhisheng understands everything 5555]
[Honestly, I think everyone in Dorm 707 more or less gets it]
[Hope they can be in the same team for the second performance]
[That’s assuming all of Dorm 707 even makes it to the second performance]
[Even if they do, they might not get to team up—Second stage is based on professional evaluation]
Lai Yudong tried to make sense of what “professional evaluation” might mean.
Did it mean the teams would be assigned based on position or role?
If that were the case, then maybe it wouldn’t be about waiting to be picked anymore. Instead, selection priority might be determined by current ranking or the vote count from the first performance. But the actual team composition would still be uncertain, and lower-ranked trainees would still have no choice in the matter.
Whatever. He’d figure it out later.
Right now, even qualifying for the first performance was still up in the air. Until results were announced, he had to assume the worst possible outcome.
“——The first performance of Climbing to Stardom has officially come to an end.”
The host, Fu Hanyu, who had remained on stage, brought the performance to a close: “The winning team of this round, along with the trainee who received the highest number of votes within that team, will have their vote count added directly to their overall total.”
He paused, then delivered a harsh announcement: “The voting for the first segment will close next Wednesday at 12 noon. The final rankings—which will determine who gets eliminated—will be released, and a live broadcast will air at 6 PM the following evening.”
“Starseekers, please cast your votes for the trainees you support.”
…
After the performance ended, the audience exited in an orderly fashion, and the production team immediately got to work arranging post-performance interviews for the trainees.
Lai Yudong sat in the familiar interview room. Facing the camera that documented his every word and movement, his feelings this time were quite different—there was much less of that constant anxiety of being exposed.
But this time, the livestream was turned off, and the implication was clear.
One wrong move, and he’d be reserve material for an evil edit.
Lai Yudong mentally prepared himself to face a barrage of tricky questions.
Although he couldn’t see the edited trainee clips from on stage, even without thinking, he could easily guess how the production team would amplify conflicts and cut things into a drama-filled storyline to stir up buzz.
Hmm, actually, they might not even need to amplify anything.
They had plenty of material served up on a silver platter. He didn’t need to dig into his memory—the awful moments flashed through his mind one after another.
“Try to say a bit more this time, okay?” The staff member handling the interview was the same one from last time. “I heard you’re kind of shy with strangers, but this is our second meeting—should go better than last time, right?”
Lai Yudong: “…I’ll do my best.”
Had his fake persona already spread that far?
The staff glanced at the script and started with some harmless questions—like which group’s stage he liked the most, which trainee’s performance left the deepest impression, his thoughts on popular trainees like Qu Xincheng and Su Junzhe, and so on.
“Group A of Spring Colors.”
“Xu An.”
“He looked really cool on stage.”
“Completely at ease—definitely worthy of being the initial center.”
Lai Yudong handled the questions with ease, but he didn’t dare let his guard down. He knew very well that this was the calm before the storm—these were just general clips to be interspersed throughout the main episode, not the targeted questions for their group.
As expected, the topic eventually shifted to their group.
“What do you think of your group’s performance?” The staff member’s tone changed from casual to slightly serious.
A clear sign that the following questions wouldn’t be easy.
Naturally, Lai Yudong couldn’t answer as bluntly as he had on the first stage with a “disastrous” remark—after all, the failure hadn’t been his, and casually judging his teammates’ performances wasn’t the most tactful move.
He replied cautiously, “There were some regrets.”
“Do you regret being assigned to this group?”
“If I gave it my all, then there’s nothing to regret.”
“Did you ever think you’d tie with Mo Li?”
“No.”
“What was going through your mind when you saw your vote count?”
“My mind went completely blank.”
“Looking back now, aren’t you happy for yourself?”
“Mixed feelings… I guess?”
Lai Yudong was on high alert—the leading nature of the questions was obvious. The production team wanted to use this ready-made topic to create tension between the two who had tied in votes.
Mo Li, with his strength and popularity advantage, wasn’t an easy target—having been through one round of competition before, he was also more aware of how to avoid risks. Meanwhile, Lai Yudong himself was a total newcomer with no prior involvement in the entertainment industry, which made him a much easier target. The chances of success were definitely higher if they chose to provoke conflict through him.
They could even cut out the staff member’s questions and leave only his answers—if that happened, he might as well dig his own grave.
Some questions were so tricky that answering either “yes” or “no” wasn’t safe. The most secure option was to dodge the question entirely or give an ambiguous response.
Thankfully, the thing on his neck wasn’t just for decoration.
“One last question,” the staff member said after a brief pause, a hint of sympathy showing in their expression. “Is there anything you want to say to Mo Li?”
“……”
Lai Yudong’s eyelid twitched violently.
This one was a heavy-hitter—if he wasn’t careful with his answer, or didn’t answer at all, it could easily be twisted into mockery or shade.
After a moment of thought, Lai Yudong came up with a relatively safe response.
He raised both hands above his head to form a heart shape and gave a sweet, innocent smile. “Let’s debut together.”
But what he was actually thinking was—
If there’s an assassination mission against Sky Video tonight, count me in.
Escaping from the hellish interview room, Lai Yudong let out a huge sigh of relief. Thank goodness his brain worked fast—otherwise, there’d be nothing left of him but dust.
Back under the camera, the livestream resumed, and the comment barrage returned as well.
[Yuzu, you’re finally back! /sobbing]
[Really want to know what went down in the interview. A few of the boys came out looking seriously off.]
[They shut the livestream—what kind of “good” questions could they possibly be asking?]
[Yuki should be fine. He gave some pretty cool answers on stage.]
[Whatever, I’ll make a giant post to clear things up.]
One of the comments mentioned another trainee, which reminded Lai Yudong of his roommate Li Xu—unfortunate song choice plus a fiery temper, a double debuff that might as well have “Evil Edit Incoming” stamped on his forehead.
He and Liang Zhisheng had reminded Li Xu more than once—sometimes directly, sometimes more tactfully—but who knew if Li Xu had actually listened.
Hopefully, he’s okay.
Lai Yudong let out a tired yawn. The performance livestream had lasted nearly four hours, and with the post-performance interviews added on, it was now close to midnight. They still had to take the bus back to the dormitory.
He hadn’t slept properly in a week. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to take off his makeup, shower, and crash in the dorm until afternoon.
But just as he took a couple of steps, a familiar voice called out behind him.
“Miura!”
Lai Yudong turned around. The one calling him was Zeng Kai, who had just come out of the interview room next door.
He stared at him wordlessly, silently wishing the guy would just get to the point and say what he needed to say.
“Um…” Zeng Kai scratched his head and gave an awkward smile. “About earlier… that was my bad. I’m sorry.”
He couldn’t look him in the eye while speaking—his gaze darted around unsteadily.
[Tell us the details.]
[I’ve always suspected Zeng Kai had a problem with Yuzu. Don’t tell me I was right?]
[The vibe in Peppermint Group A wasn’t great, but I don’t recall anything major between the two.]
[There was some friction, but nothing too serious, I think.]
[All I remember is Zeng Kai getting roasted by Zhao Yifeng.]
Lai Yudong: “……”
If you’ve got the guts to apologize, then say what exactly you’re apologizing for.
Was it the shade incident? The stairwell incident? The practice incident? Or the mistake incident?
Now that he thought about it—there were actually quite a few.
Setting aside whether the apology was sincere or had hidden motives, how could he be expected to forgive and forget with a smile when the vague “those things” weren’t even specified?
What if even the apology was half-assed?
After waiting a long time without hearing anything more from Zeng Kai, Lai Yudong quietly looked up and remarked calmly:
“That’s one big camera up there.”