Chapter 83: Sacrificial Royal
The slur “Lao Sheng (Old Monkey)” and the insult “Sheng Wang (Monkey Emperor)” — whether in the past or now — have always been black labels stuck to Yue Zhaolin, used by rival fandoms as weapons to attack him.
Some of the more thin-skinned Tides didn’t even dare click on anti-black links, because those links showed parts of the original malicious posts that were being reported.
Those original posts would adopt what they thought was a humorous tone, but were actually filled with repulsive vocabulary and vicious insults, making a mockery of Yue Zhaolin while “passing judgment” on him.
They would “analyze” his words and actions frame by frame, taking things out of context, twisting his original meaning.
Back when they were still new fans, the Tide fandom tried to reason with the bloggers, insisting Yue Zhaolin wasn’t like that — only to be met with ridicule that felt like b*llying—
Who told Yue Zhaolin to have such a “tainted” background?
He deserved it.
Later, Tide grew stronger, but the character “Sheng” didn’t disappear; it was only pushed down, buried by the Tide fandom — yet it had always been there.
“Sheng” was truly disgusting.
It marked the beginning of the smear campaign against Yue Zhaolin, the root of countless moments when Tide cried in frustration while fighting back, and the very thing that forced them to “grow stronger.”
And now, they were suddenly told that all of this had actually been unnecessary — that it was all just to sacrifice Yue Zhaolin as an offering, to pave the way for the true royals.
Fans couldn’t control others, but they could control themselves: they would not give the show’s producers any more money, and they demanded that Xingqiong and the Starlight production team issue an apology statement.
“Isn’t that overestimating themselves?”
Rong Ruize gave a mocking snort.
The online uproar was big enough that even he, holed up in a hotel because of his “panic disorder,” saw it — and he had nothing but disdain for such impulsive decisions by the fans.
Plenty of celebrities had been maliciously edited in various shows before, and fans had loudly demanded apologies. Did the production teams ever actually respond?
What a joke.
Rong Ruize said, “No matter how big the fuss gets, it’ll just blow over. Instead, Yue Zhaolin’s going to get dragged down by his fans. Bro, the production team will give him a hard time over this, right?”
His agent was scooping rice, glanced at him, and asked, “And how exactly do you think they’d do that?”
“Obviously—”
Rong Ruize opened his mouth, then stopped.
“Remember? The talent show isn’t Yue Zhaolin’s only option. He’s already famous. Even if he quits the show, there’s still a ton of resources waiting for him.”
What’s more, GreenFruit had already locked Yue Zhaolin in for upcoming music programs, group reality shows, galas, and so on.
Popularity equals money. Would the platform really suppress him by cutting his exposure and then keep using him in small, stingy amounts just to vent their frustration?
And if things really went south, it’s not like Yue Zhaolin couldn’t walk away — GreenFruit isn’t the only video platform out there.
After GreenFruit churned out the “Yue Zhaolin” hit, YellowMango and BluePants had been eyeing him hungrily for ages. If GreenFruit forced him out, those two would jump at the chance to snatch him up.
And they’d be thrilled to do it.
Fan spending power says it all.
—In the second round of voting, Yue Zhaolin’s fans cast over sixty million votes.
The contest hadn’t reached the “one pick” stage yet, so like in the first round, the second round allowed twenty votes split among nine people, with a maximum of twelve votes for a single contestant.
If you bought another month of GreenFruit membership, you’d get twenty extra votes.
A quick bit of multiplication and division — divide Yue Zhaolin’s total votes by twelve, then multiply by the twenty-yuan membership price — and you get a rather staggering figure.
Over a hundred million yuan.
Of course, that number isn’t entirely accurate.
Some fans would go to Xianyu or Taobao to look for “membership recharge agents” or “discount channels.” After countless talent shows, this kind of industry chain had already become very mature.
But even so, the gold content of Yue Zhaolin’s votes was still solid.
The sales of R.E were proof of that.
“Alright, thinking about it won’t change anything. Go get ready. Once we get back to the base, they’ll be recording the third elimination. Remember to apply your foundation a bit paler.”
“If you can cry, then cry as soon as you enter. Take advantage of other people’s concern to mention your panic disorder. If they cut it into the main episode, it’ll help clean up your image.”
“But don’t cry too ugly, or the audience won’t feel sorry for you — they’ll just want to hit you.”
“Got it.”
Just thinking about going back and having to put on a smile for Yue Zhaolin made Rong Ruize feel annoyed. He silently decided that once he debuted, he wouldn’t hold back anymore.
—
Starlight building.
The third elimination round was set to begin in the afternoon, and the mood at the base was restless. This storm sparked by Yue Zhaolin had already reached everyone’s ears.
The few people directly involved were nowhere to be seen.
Those who knew each other gathered to talk: “Do you think… the production team will respond to this?”
“They should, right? Yue Zhaolin’s fans are really powerful.” The tone carried a hint of envy.
As soon as that was said, the other trainees present fell silent — they really were jealous of his fanbase.
Talent shows were like fields of leeks: cut one crop, and another would grow. The number of trainees maliciously edited and “sacrificed” to stir up hype was countless.
The production team also tailored their response depending on who it was.
If the fans were few and the noise was small, they’d ignore it; if the noise was loud, they might release some unreleased behind-the-scenes footage as a silent form of compensation.
Fans were easy to appease, and many protests ended up fading away like that.
The question was how long Yue Zhaolin’s fans could hold out — after all, Yue Zhaolin was still participating in the show, which meant he was essentially a “hostage” in the production team’s hands.
“Whoa, that video got taken down.”
“For real?!”
Orleans read aloud, “It says it was removed due to copyright claims after being reported. The comments section is all guessing that the production team made a move and is ready to go head-to-head with the fans.”
“So… was it really the production team who did it?”
Actually, no.
In situations like this, the number-one rule is to play dead — why would they deliberately provoke the fanbase? Besides, taking it down would count as the production team “responding.”
Director Ma, swamped with work, asked his assistant, “Have the people from Xingqiong arrived yet?”
GreenFruit had contacted Xingqiong immediately, but Xingqiong was slippery as ever, vaguely saying they’d follow the show’s decision and that apologizing or not was fine either way.
A face-to-face meeting was still necessary.
The main player in this “sacrificial offering” storyline was Yue Zhaolin, and breaking the deadlock through him was the most effective approach. GreenFruit wanted to talk about it, so they still needed to meet with the other side in person.
The best outcome would be for Yue Zhaolin to do a livestream or some other form of public clarification.
—
The Yue Zhaolin in question was sitting in a car, watching the trees outside sway past the window.
Buzz—
The car door opened automatically, and Liu Li, Yue Zhaolin’s manager, got in. Seeing his calm expression, she casually asked, “What are you thinking about?”
Xingqiong and GreenFruit had arranged a time to meet and discuss how to handle the “sacrificial offering” narrative.
In reality, as the person directly involved, Yue Zhaolin only needed to hear the outcome of the discussion.
But Liu Li still wanted to first hear what he thought.
Yue Zhaolin came back to himself.
He had been thinking about the past.
In the beginning, he had only done it for money — following the company’s plan to receive idol-related training and join the show with Fu Xunying.
Back then, he hadn’t seriously considered what being an idol meant; he had recklessly and impulsively appeared in the public eye, becoming someone people firmly loved.
And now, someone people firmly defended.
The fans had always given him pure, passionate support and love — but at the very beginning, he himself had not been pure.
Yue Zhaolin had always felt—
A debt.
So he felt he ought to do something; at the very least, he couldn’t let the Tide charge into battle on their own.
After thinking for a moment, Yue Zhaolin told Liu Li about an idea he had. At present, he and the company were bound by shared interests, so there was no need to keep it from her.
As Liu Li listened, her expression gradually grew more serious.
—
Meeting room.
Director Ma closed the folder in front of him, but the cascading, step-by-step drop in the figures — like falling down a set of stairs — was still burned into his mind.
It hurt.
The main seat in this meeting was taken by Zhang Wan, someone one rank above him — the type who had both capability and connections — so Ma Tao turned to see his reaction.
Zhang Wan adjusted his glasses. He was thin, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes made him look sharp, almost mean.
The finale night of this season was just one month away. This period should have been the perfect time to open “one pick” voting and squeeze money from the fans — yet things weren’t going as planned.
Let it go?
The numbers would drop even further.
Apologize to the audience?
If the production team admitted fault, there was a risk of receiving a “take down and rectify” order from the broadcasting authority.
“Yue Zhaolin…”
Zhang Wan let out an ambiguous smile.
Ma Tao was just about to say something when the people from Xingqiong arrived. Besides the few “well-matched” executives, they had also brought… Yue Zhaolin?
Why was Yue Zhaolin here?
It turned out Xingqiong had not only brought Yue Zhaolin, but also a document.
When Zhang Wan opened to the first page, his gaze paused. He lifted his eyes to look at the young man in front of him — his appearance almost too striking — and his eyes carried a completely different kind of scrutiny.
After a moment, Zhang Wan adjusted his glasses again. Young as he was, this one clearly had guts.
“Sit down and listen.”
He had just been given the qualification to sit at the table.
—
[Goose Gossip Group | Sacrificial Royal, Clearly Planned]
[Original Post]
RT.
We’ve been calling him “Emperor Yue” for over three months, and now we’re suddenly told he was just there to be sacrificed… feels so awkward. Even more awkward than running into an ex.
[1F] So it’s confirmed?
[3F] …No, I don’t get it. Why would Xingqiong use the Emperor Yue as a sacrifice?
[16F] I heard — just heard, okay —
Capital builds idols, and Xingqiong wanted to give Emperor Yue a “bloody storm” kind of setup, have him quit the talent show, and then make a comeback against the odds. That way the fans stay super loyal.
After that, if he acts in dramas or does anything else, he’ll have built-in attention.
[23F] This “blacken him across the whole internet and then wash him clean” trick feels like something from my childhood — déjà vu with so many people, men and women, old and young. The names are right on the tip of my tongue.
[27F] Saw “quit the talent show and go act,” was about to argue “what could he even act in,” and then realized… these days literally anyone can get cast in historical idol dramas.
No telling how many talent show idols have debuted and gone straight into filming without a break. tsk.JPG
[32F] Reply to 1st Floor: To me, this is confirmation.
Back in the Episode 8 livestream thread, people were already saying Xingqiong treated Crown Prince Ying and the Emperor Yue differently — one could rehearse the performance song in advance, the other couldn’t.
Truth hit us out of nowhere — Xingqiong never intended for the Emperor Yue to debut.
[36F] We used to think Emperor Yue getting little screentime in Episode 1 was the production team deliberately stirring conflict to generate hype from audience complaints — turns out, it was just to keep him from gaining fans, making it easier to sacrifice him later.
[41F] They thought they had everything under control, but the view counts proved them wrong. That time they re-edited was basically them groveling to Emperor Yue — after the re-edit, he finally had highlight moments.
[43F] …
[45F] Aaaahhhhhhh
[49F] I can’t hold it in anymore.
[54F] Same here.
[59F] “Sacrificial royal” and “comeback against the odds” in the same sentence… really messes me up.
I feel proud of the Emperor Yue, but I also hate that he has to be this resilient.
And I feel this weird fear — I’m scared to even check news about him now.
Doctor, is there a cure for me?
[63F] That’s what falling for the rival team’s main guy feels like.
[67F] Or maybe it’s like your side crush is about to become your main, but you feel guilty because your main got dumped.
[72F] ……
[75F] ……
[79F] @67F Sis, stop speaking truth. Let me live as a “pretend deep, actually shallow” woman (just like some men), okay?
[84F] Reply to 79th Floor: Honestly, if you want to unfan, just unfan. You’re the one spending money on the idol — why should a consumer feel a moral burden over a product?
(bleep for objectification)
(But idols do exist to sell dreams, sigh.)
[95F] Speaking of which, I actually think Tide-sisters’ full-on spending freeze this time is partly their way of standing up for themselves too.
[102F] Yeah — speaking out for the Emperor Yue, but also for themselves. Either way, that “complete spending freeze” statement was so satisfying. It got the blood pumping just reading it.
Put myself in their shoes for a second — exhilarating.
[107F] Do you guys think jmz will apologize?
[112F] If a game’s big spenders launched a mass protest, the devs would probably grovel right away. With talent shows, who knows.
Tide’s spending power is definitely strong enough to be leverage, but capital is arrogant — plenty of production teams get protested and don’t even bother with token gestures.
[118F] Starlight did make a move.
I’ve seen them post behind-the-scenes clips one after another, but Tide is like a pixiu — money goes in, nothing comes out. They’ll watch the clips, but no voting.
Over on the vote tally chart next door, the numbers are crawling… but Emperor Yue is still miles ahead.
[123F] That’s some serious unity.
[128F] It’s just like coordinated comment control — moving in sync with complete strangers who stan the same person.
This kind of full spending freeze as a group activity really boosts fanbase cohesion.
Sharpening the knives for the production team.JPG
[136F] If the production keeps ignoring it, will the fan morale take a hit?
Feels like the atmosphere’s been wound really tight — almost too heated.
[139F] Reporrrrrrt—
[141F] What’s up?
[149F] Starlight’s official Weibo account is online.