Chapter 78: Twenty-eight Hours
It felt like he had never been this exhausted before, thought Yue Zhaolin, lying on the floor.
His strength was completely drained. His chest was rising and falling as he breathed in oxygen. The lights on the ceiling turned on, their reflections flickering in his eyes.
They were a bit blinding.
His dry eyes welled up slightly from the irritation, and he closed them briefly.
When he opened them again, the first thing he saw was Li Ying’s face, also damp with a sheen of sweat. Li Ying extended a hand to him. Yue Zhaolin reached out and grabbed it, using the support to stand up.
“Thank you, PD.”
Li Ying pulled him up and patted him on the back. “You did really well.”
Li Ying was considered one of the more successful idols who transitioned into other areas, but even he had to take a roundabout route to keep going—acting in a drama from time to time, drawing in new fans, then releasing a song.
His singing and dancing skills had surely declined, which made the threat of rising newcomers even more palpable.
But this praise was sincere.
The six members of the Puppet on Strings team stood together, facing the audience.
Fu Xunying stood next to Yue Zhaolin, his throat burning like he might cough up blood. There was a metallic taste in his mouth—it turned out this was what it felt like to give everything you had.
He reached out toward Yue Zhaolin.
The group joined hands and bowed to the audience.
The crowd below was noisy, a jumble of voices blending together into an incomprehensible blur. All Yue Zhaolin could hear was the pounding of his heart.
After the bow, Li Ying handed the microphone to Yue Zhaolin.
Yue Zhaolin took it. The mic was right by his lips. He looked out at the crowd, opened his mouth—he had words prepared, rehearsed over and over in his throat, but now he couldn’t speak.
The studio gradually quieted down.
On the big screen appeared a less-than-perfect Yue Zhaolin.
His hair was messy, his makeup half-melted by sweat, his breathing ragged, and the hand holding the microphone trembled slightly.
He looked exhausted, his voice hoarse:
“…I feel like I’m someone who’s been blessed.”
“I’ve received so much love, but I’ve given too little back in return.”
He was like an unfinished puzzle.
At first, it was only a single corner, pieced together by a “beautiful face.”
Only after joining the talent show did he start adding more pieces—through training, performances, and various events.
Even now, the puzzle was far from complete.
Puppet on Strings wasn’t perfect.
If their fundamentals had been more solid, the stage would’ve been even more impressive.
“No! The stage was your gift to us—it was absolutely amazing!”
Someone shouted out loud.
Idols are the dream-chasers the audience projects themselves onto.
Back when idol culture wasn’t so distorted, what the audience saw first was the one who shone on stage—not the persona beneath it.
The stage is the beating heart of this kind of “dream product” called an idol.
What allowed Yue Zhaolin to turn casual onlookers into devoted fans—was the stage.
Yue Zhaolin pressed his lips together, a subtle ache rising behind his eyes. “Maybe it’s just… I always feel like I’m not good enough…”
Beside He Jie, a Tide-sister let out a gravelly sliding note and growled low, “Damn it, who said something to him? Why does he sound so insecure?”
“You’re amazing!”
“Yue Zhaolin, you really are amazing.”
Yue Zhaolin smiled and said, “But thankfully, there’s still a long road ahead. There’s a lot of time in the future—I’ll keep working hard to bring even better performances.”
With that, he gave a deep bow.
Someone in the audience couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“Wuwuwu, what is it with this stage? It’s way more emotional than the last two…”
“Once I leave, I’ll probably be crying while writing my fan report…”
Next came the team members taking turns to give their remarks. Yue Zhaolin stood quietly to the side, listening.
The taut string in his mind, which had been stretched tight all this time, finally relaxed now that the performance was over.
Before leaving the stage, Yue Zhaolin picked up the little paper cutout of “Yue Zhaolin,” held it next to his face, and made a peace sign.
Bye-bye.
Amidst the cheers, the Puppet on Strings group stepped down from the stage, heading backstage.
Now that the tension was gone, Yue Zhaolin started to feel dizzy. His steps grew unsteady, his vision darkened, and instinctively, he reached out to find something to hold on to.
Fu Xunying, walking behind him, caught him and furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong?”
“…Sleepy.”
Just a breath of sound.
You’d barely hear it if you weren’t paying close attention.
Fu Xunying supported Yue Zhaolin, whose body was swaying. “You’ll be able to sleep soon. Can you still walk? If not, I’ll carry you.”
Cen Chi quipped, “Can you even carry him?”
Li Ying nearly burst out laughing.
Fu Xunying rolled his eyes. “You think I’m some scrawny mutt? And Yue Zhaolin, you can barely keep your eyes open—get on. I won’t drop you.”
Yue Zhaolin really was too sleepy.
He slumped onto Fu Xunying’s back and, surrounded by the faintly stinging scent of hair gel, fell asleep.
Midway through, Fu Xunying—who was, in fact, not a scrawny mutt—still got tired, and Cen Chi took over for the second half. During the whole time, Yue Zhaolin slept soundly without waking up.
—
[Moonrise Stirs the Swans: Third Performance Report]
Moon’s piece was called Puppet on Strings, and he was in a group with PD Li Ying.
If the first and second performances were about admiring the stage, the third felt like watching a short stage play—it was an unprecedented visual shock.
An exquisite face + doll-like makeup, breathtakingly beautiful, perfectly complementing the theme of awakening and struggling self-awareness within the dance. For a moment, I forgot he was Yue Zhaolin.
What really softened my heart was his post-performance message—he said he felt blessed, but that he hadn’t done enough yet.
The way he said it had that kind of soft, sticky tone you’d only use with someone really close—almost like a gentle whine. Not complaining, just speaking from the heart.
[Moonrise: Third Performance Report]
I don’t want to be a “rational fan” saying stuff like “there’s room for improvement”—I just want to gush.
First, the styling: silver-white short hair and misty gray contact lenses matched perfectly. The intensified lip and eye makeup highlighted the doll-like artificiality and flawlessness.
Then there’s his expressiveness. Puppet on Strings had very minimal staging—just lighting and an LED screen—but it was all perfectly used. From the opening “innocent evil,” to “shattered reason,” to “madness born from self-sacrifice and freedom,” his expression killed it. Honestly, I suspect he’s been taking acting lessons. Even on a big screen, everything landed. Best emotional delivery in the entire group.
Especially after you-know-who’s mishap—it genuinely felt like he was going all in, like betting everything in a do-or-die moment.
He’s also gotten a lot thinner. Especially during the group knife dance segment, he was sharp like a jewel-encrusted longsword—get too close, and it would cut.
A perfect performance. A perfect interpretation. If this were in domestic idol entertainment, he’d be dominating the scene.
I just want to say: Yue Zhaolin, you deserve everything.
[A Crescent Moon Hangs High]: Didn’t we just give him a whole confession the other day? Why’s our Yue suddenly insecure again? His thoughts are so delicate, like a little girl—it’s too cute I’m gonna die.
Tide-sister, you better start planning how to cheer him up next time you see him.
[Big Raccoon’s Cat Teaser Wand]: Not even talking from a fan’s perspective, I have to say Puppet on Strings was the best. Brother Li was super professional—as a PD, he was seriously responsible and dedicated to the trainees.
But honestly, it almost got ruined by one bad apple.
Can’t remember the guy’s name, spoke with a Taiwanese accent.
[Spear Dipped in Sh*t, Whoever Gets Poked Dies]: Someone caught a cold on the third performance stage. Who was it? I’m not saying (okay fine, I actually don’t know who he is).
This guy was just using the show’s low profile as an excuse to commit crimes on stage.
Amid the flood of praise, a jarring note stood out—a pointed question:
[Zhu Zhu’er Talks Idol Industry]: @StarlightV
Why was Puppet on Strings allowed a re-recording? Why did they get a second take at the public performance? Isn’t that totally unfair to the trainees in the other groups?
Are you saying just because Yue Zhaolin’s in that group, they get special privileges?
The criticism was now aimed directly at Yue Zhaolin.
Even though it had nothing to do with him personally, the fact that he had many “anti-fans” meant they jumped in to fan the flames.
The instigating blogger clearly came prepared, and the top comments were chaos:
[This is like the college entrance exam, and the guy next to me starts singing. I say it’s distracting, so the examiner lets me take the whole test again? Seriously?]
[A group member messes up and they get to re-record?? Just hand him the debut spot already.]
[What’s everyone so shocked about? Yue Zhaolin’s been the preordained emperor from the start. The whole show’s whitewashing campaign across platforms is so obvious—I thought I was the only one who remembered what really happened.]
[Didn’t the repo say it was Li Ying who asked for the re-recording? Why is Yue Zhaolin being dragged into this again?]
[Don’t try to drag Li Ying down with this. He suggested the re-recording out of respect for the stage—it was the production team’s decision to approve it.]
[Wait, who actually made the mistake? Why’s that person suddenly invisible?]
[“Wasn’t that trainee sick? I saw it on the trending topics.]
Trending Topic #6:
#Rong Ruize is sick#
The attached photo shows him being helped into a car outside the Starlight building, wrapped in a blanket and looking pale.
Trending Topic #10:
#Ran into Rong Ruize at the hospital#
Someone snapped a photo of him at a private hospital’s psychiatry department.
[Who knows if that’s even real.]
[Rong Ruize never had stage fright—if he did, there would’ve been signs way earlier.]
[The one who messed up was clearly Rong Ruize. The only reason Puppet on Strings got a re-record is because the show wants to protect their golden boy Yue Zhaolin.]
[Speculating this viciously about someone who’s sick… you must be ugly inside and out.]
[Oh? Already getting defensive? Then tell ‘him’ to post his medical records, I dare you.]
Rong Ruize nearly dropped his phone.
He was staring at the trending topics—because his company had bought those trending spots and deployed paid commenters to sell the story that he was really “sick.”
He had to debut, and that meant clearing his name.
Stage fright had originally seemed like the perfect excuse—but before they could push the narrative further, the trending page had already started “exposing” the truth about his illness.
Panic and rage twisted together in Rong Ruize’s chest.
His agent, however, was calm and confident.
“What are you panicking for? Don’t you see what’s going on? They’re not really coming after you—they’re using you as a stepping stone to go after Yue Zhaolin.”
Rong Ruize’s fake illness made it even easier for others to weaponize the situation against Yue Zhaolin.
“Brother, did you find out who dared to screw me over?”
“Your rap mentor.”
Rong Ruize frowned. “Who?”
“That guy—Verse.”
Verse had originally planned to hire paid commenters to push the narrative that Yue Zhaolin stole Li Ying’s center spot.
But what he didn’t expect was that Li Ying would come out and say it himself, completely catching him off guard. Still, the paid comments were already bought and paid for—no point wasting money. So he just switched the smear campaign to a different topic.
He thought he was being sneaky—but didn’t realize the PR firm he hired wouldn’t keep his secrets. In the end, he messed with the wrong people.
Rong Ruize: “Idiot! Dumbass!”
He kicked the door hard in frustration.
Capital hadn’t given up on Rong Ruize yet—of course they’d try to clear the road for him.
Of course, this was a law-abiding society. You couldn’t go too far. But making sure someone loses a job? Just a matter of lifting a finger.
“What now?”
“Play dead,” his agent said, puffing out smoke. “You know how it is—netizens have no memory. As long as you debut safely, your fans will clean up the mess for you.”
“And hey—be nice to Yue Zhaolin. Swallow a little pride now, reel in the big fish later.”
“Stay here for a few more days. If you’re going to fake it, fake it all the way.”
Rong Ruize: “…Got it.”
Yue Zhaolin. Yue Zhaolin. That name was everywhere.
What’s he so proud of? Enough already.
…
The “proud” Yue Zhaolin was still sound asleep.
Sleeping like the dead.
Who knows how much time passed. Wrapped tightly in his blanket, he stirred slightly. After a few moments, his eyes slowly focused.
The dorm room curtains were drawn, but faint light peeked through the cracks.
There was a strange feeling—
Like that disorienting moment when you can’t remember what day—or even year—it is.
“……”
His throat was unbearably dry. He wanted water.
He tried to sit up, but having slept for so long, his body was weak and limp. He flopped back onto the bed like a rag doll.
After a long struggle, he finally escaped the blanket cocoon, found an unopened bottle of mineral water and drank it, then wobbled his way to the bathroom.
Only after a shower did he feel halfway alive again.
Towel-drying his hair, he heard a knock on the door from outside.
“Come in.”
It was Cen Chi. The moment he saw Yue Zhaolin, he visibly relaxed. “You’re finally awake.”
Yue Zhaolin: “Sorry for worrying everyone. I must’ve slept quite a while?”
“A really long while,” Cen Chi dropped a bomb. “Almost twenty-eight hours.”
Yue Zhaolin: “…Huh?”
He was stunned.
“It’s the 20th today,” Cen Chi said as he pulled open the curtains. Outside, the sky was painted in shades of orange and red—it was sunset. “Six in the evening.”
At first, Yue Zhaolin had only slept ten hours, which everyone thought was normal.
At sixteen hours, they got worried and called a doctor. After a basic check-up, the doctor had simply said, “He’s just sleep-deprived. Let him sleep it off.”
And so he slept. All the way until now.
Unbelievable.
Yue Zhaolin: “…Sleeping for over twenty hours—did I miss filming?”
Cen Chi shook his head. “Nope. Rong Ruize still hasn’t come back, so they didn’t record the elimination. By the way, what do you want for dinner? I can bring it back for you.”
“No need. I’ll go out and walk a bit.”
“Want me to come with?”
“Yeah.”
After blow-drying his hair, Yue Zhaolin and Cen Chi headed toward the cafeteria together. It was nearly empty.
They had popcorn chicken today. Yue Zhaolin’s eyes lit up slightly—he ordered a portion.
“Cen Chi, you’re not eating?”
“I already did. Got a rice ball from the convenience store.”
The cafeteria food was mediocre, so many trainees preferred grabbing something from the store instead.
Yue Zhaolin popped a piece of popcorn chicken into his mouth, eyes squinting in bliss.
Then, out of nowhere, Tan Shen appeared behind him and suddenly spoke up: “Want another portion of popcorn chicken? I don’t really like that stuff.”
Yue Zhaolin jolted and turned around, exasperated.
Tan Shen smiled. “Hi.”
“I’m gonna grab some food real quick. Be right back.”
As Tan Shen walked away, Cen Chi squinted after him and muttered, “Zhaolin, did you notice anything… different about Tan Shen? Doesn’t he look a bit broader?”
Normally, he could tell Yue Zhaolin and Tan Shen apart at a glance, but just now he’d almost mixed them up for a second.
Tan Shen didn’t look like a stick insect anymore.
Yue Zhaolin said, “Maybe because he’s been exercising more, and eating and sleeping well—starting to build muscle?”
Just as they were talking, a few staff members hurried over.
“Zhaolin! There you are! Why are you—ugh, never mind. We’ve got an urgent live broadcast. Go get ready, now.”
Yue Zhaolin: “??”
That came out of nowhere.
Tan Shen returned with his tray of food. “I know why—your fans thought you were dead.”
Yue Zhaolin: “…Huh?”