Chapter 84: Agreement
[151F] No way… are they gonna respond?
[154F] Camping here for live updates.
[157F] It’s been less than two days since Tide froze spending — production’s reaction speed isn’t bad.
[163F] Getting hyped.
[165F] Those of us who already uninstalled Weibo will just wait here for a report.
(It’s because lately there’ve been way too many fakes on Weibo — people using their butts instead of their brains. I couldn’t stand it, so I deleted it.)
[169F] +1
[173F] We’re about to find out if jmz will go head-to-head with Tide, or fold completely. rubs hands in anticipation
[172F] My guess is they’ll go head-to-head.
That “Fake Royal, Real Sacrifice” video Tide posted on Bilibili got reported and taken down — feels like a declaration of war.
[176F] But according to a gossip blogger, hey, this wasn’t done by the production team—just happened to coincide. That gossip blogger is actually a marketing account run by GreenFruit.
So… is that them backing down?
[183F] As someone who’s been on Bilibili, I think that explanation’s okay, because Bilibili’s review process has never been good—things that should get reviewed don’t, and things that shouldn’t get reviewed get flagged instead.
I once uploaded a variety show mash-up, and it got taken down six months later. Who am I supposed to complain to?
[180F] If it’s not something the official side said, it’s not credible. From Tides’ point of view, this was the production team deliberately provoking, adding fuel to the fire, anger level up.
[185F] What’s the reaction over on Douyin?
[189F] One group is watching Bell Crane’s and staging a lawless fan war in the comments—wanting Yue Zhaolin to act in everything; his schedule is already booked for ten years.
One group is cursing about the reshoot—ugh, capital; ugh, royal family favoritism; ugh, ordinary people’s empathy.
One group watched Tides’ analysis video uploaded on both platforms, feeling sorry for Yue Zhaolin.
And then there’s the most classic group of all: the “Without knowing the full picture, I won’t comment” self-proclaimed rational crowd.
[210F] …That’s truly a classic.
[213F] This time it’s really a grand spectacle—topics piling together, a full-on battle royale.
[220F] Wait, the ones who went to Weibo haven’t come back yet?
[225F] Still not back?
It’s been three minutes—if it’s a long post, they should’ve finished reading by now, right?
[228F] They haven’t posted yet.
[234F] ?
[229F] The Starlight official account’s been online for three or four minutes now? And hasn’t posted anything? What on earth are they trying to do?
[234F] Wait, we’ve already guessed everything they might post in the group chat, but they themselves haven’t made a move? Don’t tell me they’re editing the statement live from the backend?
[241F] PR like this would definitely have a pre-written draft. No way.
[250F] The wait is nerve-wracking.
[253F] They posted!
[257F] Yeah, they posted… but it’s just a joint statement with Verse’s agency.
“Dear Starlight producers,
Due to force majeure, mentor Zhang Wei (Verse), after communicating with the production team, has decided to withdraw from the subsequent recording of this program.”
[261F] ……
Tch, a fake-out.
[265F] Someone leaving the show isn’t even that big of a deal—does it really deserve an official statement?
[274F] So they just posted that? And went offline?
[279F] They’re back online again…
[283F] And offline again.
[385F] .…..
—
Starlight first posted the statement about verse withdrawing from recording, so Tide assumed they weren’t going to respond to today’s incident anymore.
So Tide was ready to settle in for a long-term battle—but then Starlight made a sudden, unexpected move:
Repeatedly hopping online and offline.
Tide couldn’t understand.
Even the netizens waiting to watch the drama were baffled: “What is this? Are they going to respond or not?”
In “Fake Royal, Real Sacrifice”, the so-called evidence fans used to “prove” that Yue Zhaolin was a sacrificial pawn of the royal faction honestly wasn’t all that solid.
There were only two lines from Verse’s diss track.
Things like recorded phone calls or leaked script photos—stuff that’s actually concrete—didn’t exist.
But that didn’t stop the gossip-hungry masses.
To put it crudely, Yue Zhaolin is at the peak of his popularity—if he so much as farts… cough, still too crude—let’s say if he coughs twice, people will be wondering if he’s caught a cold or has allergies.
Yue Zhaolin + “sacrificial pawn” narrative + fans halting spending—this combo is enough to stop anyone even remotely interested in Yue Zhaolin in their tracks.
Throw in resentment toward the rich, the urge to stir the pot, and herd mentality, and the hype kept climbing. Naturally, bloggers across platforms were pulling all-nighters to crank out videos.
After that, it became a cycle—the hype snowballed bigger and bigger.
So when it came to whether Starlight would respond, there was a crowd of onlookers waiting online.
“What’s with this going online then offline? You’ve drawn all the gawkers in but post nothing? Or is the official account coordinating to stir the pot?”
“Come on, talent shows are a business—who doesn’t know that?”
“The thing is, the fans don’t know. They say they’ll stop spending, and if the production team still dares to hype things up, that’s like pushing money away. Is that possible?”
“So, can we get a clear answer?”
Tide wanted to know too.
Xu Mingmei called out, “I’m done—what on earth are they trying to do? Doing sit-ups from the grave over and over again—is this supposed to be fun?!”
Notification after notification popped up for them going online, the phone buzzing again and again.
And every time she checked—nothing.
Just messing with people?
“—”
Next to Xu Mingmei, Peng Tao rubbed her reddened eyelids with a wet tissue and said in a muffled voice, “Still, it does show that our halting the spending is having an effect.”
At the very least, the production team wasn’t completely sitting on their hands.
Ever since Fake Royal, Real Sacrificial Pawn came out, Peng Tao—like the other Sister Tides—was shaken, but her reaction was stronger than Xu Mingmei’s.
Peng Tao was a first-love fangirl and only now discovered how fragile her heart was. Because of the word “Sheng,” she had cried under her blanket several times, unable to get over it.
As a battle-hardened fan, Xu Mingmei had already developed immunity to “Sheng,” but Peng Tao hadn’t. Whenever she did anti-black reporting, she would have to block the bottom half of the original post before daring to click it.
Just seeing that character would trigger her.
Like PTSD.
Later, Peng Tao learned the origin of “Sheng”: the “royal” who debuted by stepping on seniors at a music festival was actually part of a company-arranged script. She was so angry she laughed through her tears.
“Will the production team apologize?”
Xu Mingmei: “They’re too money-hungry, but they won’t just play dead either.”
Today marked the end of the second round of voting, and the total votes would be multiplied by 9% and carried over into the third round.
The final round would be one-pick voting, and unlike the first two rounds, in the third round, buying a one-month membership would only give you one vote.
A paywall within a paywall.
With more than twenty days—nearly a month—left before finale night, it was an uncommonly long monetization period. Based on her shallow workplace experience, Xu Mingmei concluded—
The production team probably wouldn’t give up this juicy cash cow.
The behind-the-scenes clips they’d been releasing before were actually already a “peace offering” signal from the production team, but it was so perfunctory that Tide didn’t accept it.
Next, the production team would probably respond too—whether it would be a deflective, watered-down apology was anyone’s guess.
On Bilibili, an uploader who had worked as a variety show director had already made an analysis—
Fans would get an apology from the production team, but it would be full of official jargon, fuzzy on responsibility, all talk and no action.
This was standard operating procedure for the production team.
And once the production team issued an apology statement, if fans still weren’t satisfied, they’d come across to outsiders as “relentless,” which could instead provoke resentment.
Bzzz.
The phone vibrated again.
Xu Mingmei’s first reaction was that Starlight was doing another “sit-up from the grave.” Annoying.
She picked it up and looked closely.
…
“Ahhhhhhh—!”
Peng Tao, still rubbing her nose, was startled so badly she gave a little shiver. Before she could even ask what happened, Xu Mingmei screamed.
“Starlight apologized! And GreenFruit’s official account too?!”
“What?!”
Peng Tao’s eyes went wide, and she practically sprawled over Xu Mingmei to see her phone.
[GreenFruit Official Account]:
We apologize to all viewers.
Recently, we have heard feedback from Starlight Producers and feel deeply remorseful.
As a talent competition variety show, we must first and foremost resolutely oppose the idea that “traffic is everything” and convey positive energy to society and the public.
However, during the broadcast of the show, there were oversights that should not have happened, and the production team did not fully achieve this standard.
The management of the GreenFruit platform and the Starlight production team have engaged in deep self-reflection and have launched corrective measures in response to this oversight:
The second-round voting channel has been closed. The voting system will undergo stricter revisions and reviews, and will only be reopened once it meets the required standards.
We apologize to the trainees and Starlight Producers who were hurt by this oversight.
From now on, as an audiovisual platform, we will conduct stricter inspections and improvements to the program’s production process to avoid similar oversights from occurring again.
We will strictly monitor variety show content to create a clear and clean online audiovisual environment.
Please, all viewers, supervise us.
—GreenFruit Management”
Top Comments:
[…?]
[I figured you’d kneel and apologize, but this is full prostration. Has management lost their mind?]
[This apology? Did Yue Zhaolin’s fans somehow get the GreenFruit CEO’s n*des?]
[Holy crap, the Tide fandom is going to love this. This is a massive win, record-breaking in idol show history.]
—
Fu Xunying found Yue Zhaolin, still out of breath, and asked bluntly:
“Was it worth it?”
It was only after the dust had settled that Fu Xunying learned GreenFruit, Xingqiong, and Yue Zhaolin had signed a kind of three-way “bet-on” agreement.
The capital side—GreenFruit—would provide Yue Zhaolin with funding, slots on top variety shows, film and TV resources, and other support for his career.
Yue Zhaolin, in turn, had to complete the workload set by GreenFruit: a certain number of acting roles negotiated between GreenFruit and Xingqiong, a set number of promotional appearances, and profit targets.
Xingqiong would handle marketing and publicity, manage public opinion, and maintain the “Yue Zhaolin” IP.
The Starlight production’s “cutting off an arm”–style full kowtow was an act of submission to Yue Zhaolin—
But it was also an early-stage investment in him. Closing the voting channel didn’t really hurt them; without the bulk of revenue from heavy spending fans, losing a little wasn’t a big deal. It also served as an answer to higher-ups: “See? We’re making changes, don’t shut us down, we’ve admitted fault.”
Still, as with any bet-on agreement, alongside all the benefits given to Yue Zhaolin came a system of rewards and penalties.
Fu Xunying grabbed his hand: “If you don’t win the bet, you’ll have to personally make up the shortfall in profits. It’s not a small amount. Even for me…”
In addition, the penalties included things like contract extensions. One wrong step, and the other two parties would “eat” him alive.
Yue Zhaolin looked at the sunlight outside the hallway, his pupils instinctively narrowing.
“If I win, I can get a share of the profits—and a stake in the company.”
Fu Xunying’s lashes trembled.
A gambler.
Even though things were boiling over online and Fu Xunying was nearly drowned in a flood of criticism, he knew that was fan-circle business. Between him and Yue Zhaolin, nothing had changed.
He would stand on the same front with him—but he hadn’t expected Yue Zhaolin to have this much nerve.
Before this, in the eyes of the platform’s higher-ups, Yue Zhaolin was a useful tool, a money tree—everything but an independent “individual.”
—Even if he had his little “moods,” overall he was still within their control.
Until today, Fu Xunying would never have imagined Yue Zhaolin making this kind of decision.
The seat at the negotiation table this time was something Yue Zhaolin had fought for himself.
Yue Zhaolin lifted his face, breathing with his eyes closed. Around him was an almost imperceptible whisper of wind, carrying the faint scent of grass mixed with the metallic tang of damp soil.
“Do you think I’ll lose?”
He turned his head, smiling as he spoke.
It wasn’t a confident rhetorical question, nor a request for reassurance—it was a tone laced with amusement, impossible to read.
Fu Xunying: “…”
Yue Zhaolin slipped his hand from Fu Xunying’s, glanced at the time—the third elimination round had been waiting for him for quite a while. Smiling, he said, “Let’s go back.”
He noticed the tingling in his fingertips. Not fear—exhilaration. Joy.
—The once-predetermined script, the love so pure it could never be fully repaid, and the unshakable sense of debt… all had a chance to start over.
Starting from this apology, at last, he gave back a little emotional value.
He wouldn’t deliberately try to forget that his past had never been pure, but from now on, perhaps it could be like a rebirth — the beginning for him and Tide.
This time, it was actually just another form of resource exchange.
Yue Zhaolin’s greatest bargaining chip was himself.
And he was growing.
Becoming stronger.
**TN
Starlight ‘Producers’ – the fans, treated as if they are the ones “producing” the idols through voting and support. It’s patterned after real Chinese idol survival shows like Produce 101 China, where viewers were called “national producers” because their votes supposedly “produced” the debut lineup.