Chapter 92: Two Days Off
Li Ying continued pointing out the other trainees’ flaws, letting Yue Zhaolin think things over by himself for a while.
“Cen Chi’s downward runs aren’t very clean — still needs more practice.”
“Chen Wu, relax your voice a bit. Pushing too hard just makes it sound greasy.”
“Ao Liang’ao, when you sing the very first word, don’t use that throat-catching bubble sound. Your technique isn’t solid enough to keep your tone stable.”
“Rong Ruize…”
…
After going through each trainee, Li Ying quietly let out a breath. Finally, the commentary was done.
The further the show went, the less freedom Li Ying had. Even when to lift his head, what expression to make — all of it was clearly written in the script.
His critiques were half true, half staged.
Take Ao Liang’ao (Orleans) for example — with no background to back him, Li Ying criticized him until his face went pale, even suggesting that his part be reassigned for others to try singing.
That “other person” was, of course, Rong Ruize.
Later in editing, Ao Liang’ao’ mistakes would be exaggerated and highlighted with flashy captions, guiding viewers to believe he was weak — all to set off Rong Ruize in contrast.
— It was a highlight moment deliberately designed for Rong Ruize, arranged through negotiations between his company and the production team, meant to repair his negative image after his mistakes in the third public stage.
Once the commentary ended, Li Ying turned to Yue Zhaolin, just about to speak, when he noticed the staff signaling a pause.
“PD Li, sorry, but the singing portion with the backing track needs to be re-recorded.”
The directors had discussed it — Rong Ruize’s singing was too much of a mess. Even with the “set up for a comeback” editing method, it couldn’t be salvaged. Re-recording was the only option.
“Everyone, get ready.”
At the staff’s words, a few trainees exchanged glances. On their faces flickered faint smiles and knowing, mocking expressions.
Poor skills, but with the production team protecting him, he could always “redo” whenever he messed up.
The trainees in Suit Aesthetics all had the same thought — Fine if he screws up himself, but why drag us down with him?
Rong Ruize forced himself not to look at their reactions, but his mental toughness wasn’t as strong as he thought. His emotions still showed through.
Yue Zhaolin glanced at his clenched fists. Is that what you call dignity?
He noticed Rong Ruize’s mood, but felt no sympathy at all. All he cared about was the irritation of having to redo the group recording because of him.
Yue Zhaolin never looked down on teammates who lacked ability — take Wei Lai, for instance. His ceiling was only so high, but at least he gave his all and finished the stage seriously.
Rong Ruize was different.
And this was already the second time.
Even Rong Ruize, slow as he was, could sense the resentment from the group. He forced a smile and said, “Sorry, everyone. Let’s do it again, I’ll sing properly this time.”
But although he said “sorry,” it was obvious he only directed the apology toward Yue Zhaolin and Fu Xunying. Mao Ding didn’t even get a glance.
Mao Ding: “…”
Brother, you just wasted the entire group’s time, and now even your apologies come with a ranking system?
He cursed inwardly but swallowed it down, thinking it best to just hurry and finish the recording.
The staff raised their voice: “We’re starting the backing track, everyone get ready.”
Yue Zhaolin pulled his thoughts back, nodded slightly, signaling that he was ready.
Once again, singing filled the practice room.
Maybe because of nerves, Rong Ruize’s throat caught and cracked on his second attempt — and just like that, a third take was suddenly forced on them.
Yue Zhaolin: Tch.
Beside him, Fu Xunying nudged Yue Zhaolin’s elbow. “Your face slipped. You know that?”
“I know.”
He should’ve let it slip sooner.
Rong Ruize’s face twitched. The atmosphere, the pressure in his own head, and the suffocating weight Yue Zhaolin exuded — it all turned his mind into mush.
The third take, at least, he barely managed to stumble through.
— The beginning still shook, but he steadied himself afterward. Heart pounding, Rong Ruize forced his way to the end. The quality wasn’t great, but at least it was much better than the second try.
The director team quickly decided: this cut would do. They could fix it later in post.
As for the part originally meant to be reassigned from Orleans to Rong Ruize, that too would just have to be polished in the studio.
Li Ying got the signal from the on-site director and moved on to the coaching segment.
He lifted his head and gave a genuine smile. “Zhaolin, have you found the feeling yet? Sing your part again, but with more emotion.”
Yue Zhaolin: “Alright.”
He recalled the murmuring, hazy vibe of Temperature Gap and began to sing:
“In the neon city mirrored in rain and mist, the lapel of a suit adorned with a rose of the night.”
“Good. Let’s start with this line.”
Nana: “You’re looking in the right direction. This song has a bit of a sexy quality — not an aggressive forcefulness, but something that flows naturally.”
“For example, the ending word ‘pair’ — in speech it’s a rising tone, but when rapping, don’t make it so light. Stretch it out a little, but don’t let it fall flat.”
“You can also add just a touch of nasal resonance to give it lift. Remember, only a little bit, don’t overdo it.”
Yue Zhaolin tilted his head, thought it over, then immediately tried again.
Nana: “Wow, that’s much better!”
Compared to the verse section, Nana’s teaching style was always encouraging, but she also targeted issues directly, never stingy about sharing all kinds of rap techniques.
“For your later practice, try making the ‘ai’ sound, like sighing it out. Hold the tail of the sound, record it, and listen back repeatedly to make sure the breath doesn’t leak.”
Yue Zhaolin took note of it, bowed, and thanked her. “Got it. Thank you, teacher.”
After the rap mentor, it was Jia Ge and Li Ying’s turn. Each of them gave professional feedback from their own perspective, and Yue Zhaolin carefully took it all in.
He let out a quiet breath.
On finals night, he would give it everything he had.
…
One by one, the guidance sessions went by. After about an hour, the coaching finally ended.
As Yue Zhaolin and Li Ying finished greeting the mentors and were about to leave, Yue Zhaolin suddenly noticed Li Ying smiling — and it was the kind of smile that seemed to be waiting to be noticed.
Huh?
Yue Zhaolin blinked, sensing that something was off. “PD, is there something you want to say?”
Li Ying only smiled silently, winking at Yue Zhaolin with a mischievous glint in his eyes, then glanced past him at the other trainees, who hadn’t realized anything yet.
Tan Shen was fiddling with the door. “Why won’t this open? Is the lock broken?”
Deng Yangbing: “Let me try.”
Deng Yangbing — a Korean-style pretty boy whose appearance contrasted absurdly with his Popeye-level strength — grabbed the door and gave it a tug—
Bang!
The staff and Li Ying all went pale. The playful mood vanished instantly as they rushed to stop Deng Yangbing from pulling the door again. The lock had been intentionally set by the production team.
Yue Zhaolin: “…”
This was comedy gold.
Li Ying collected himself and helplessly called Deng Yangbing back. He had an announcement to make.
Eighteen trainees lined up in two rows, staring at Li Ying in confusion.
Li Ying: “The finals are in three weeks, which means your journey in Starlight is nearing its end. So the production team has prepared a little surprise for you—”
“Two days off.”
Yue Zhaolin: “?”
Time off?
Fu Xunying also thought he’d misheard. There had never been such a thing in survival shows before.
Amid the commotion, Li Ying smiled and said, “The holiday starts tomorrow. You can stay at the base, go home, or go anywhere you like.”
Previously, the show had been filmed under closed conditions because trainees had to hand over their phones — the goal was to prevent them from checking their vote counts and being influenced by the internet.
But now that voting had closed, it was different. With no more pay-to-vote system, they needed topics to stay relevant. The holiday was meant to create “chance encounters” with fans across the country.
Since filming and broadcast weren’t simultaneous, and because of their contracts, trainees eliminated in the third round hadn’t been allowed to publicly announce their departure. So during this holiday, they too would appear, to muddy the waters — and almost none of them refused. Their companies were more than happy for the extra exposure.
Li Ying continued: “During the holiday, you can also use your own phones to record your daily life.”
They could film emotional moments with family, shoot vlogs of their break, or showcase singing and dancing to “prove” they had loved the stage since childhood.
If the footage turned out well, there was a chance it would make it into the main broadcast.
As soon as Li Ying finished speaking, many trainees’ eyes lit up. This time was different — it was like having the editing rights in their own hands.
They could include tearful, fan-baiting clips, without worrying about looking ugly while crying, or bad lighting. If their makeup smudged, they could just reshoot.
The noise grew louder and livelier, and Li Ying, satisfied, withdrew with a smile.
All around him, people were already making plans. Yue Zhaolin thought about it too, but couldn’t decide where to go.
Fu Xunying asked: “Yue Zhaolin, where do you want to go during the break?”
Yue Zhaolin probably wouldn’t go home — and Fu Xunying didn’t want to either. They could go soak in hot springs, or visit scenic mountains and rivers. A little relaxation would be nice.
Since signing his contract, Yue Zhaolin’s schedule had been crammed full — vocal and dance lessons, acting classes, shoots here and there — he hadn’t had a moment to truly unwind.
Yue Zhaolin shook his head. “Nowhere in particular.” He’d rather stay at the base.
“Don’t you ever get tired, doing this all the time?”
Of course he did.
But it was fulfilling.
Yue Zhaolin didn’t quite know how to put his current state into words — everything he was learning felt like laying the foundation for his future.
The more solid his skills, the more confidence he would have.
Fu Xunying: “That’s why I don’t understand you…”
A staff member interrupted: “Everyone, please return to the practice room for now. There’s still a filming task today.”
For the live finals, the opening would feature a short self-introduction for each contestant. Not spoken by the trainees themselves, but presented as a ten-second clip.
For example, Tan Shen, who used to be a model, would film a scene on a green screen of him walking the runway. The camera would move from behind to the front, showing Tan Shen transform into an idol wearing a headset mic. In front of him, the audience cheers; behind him, the big runway screen lights up with the name “Tan Shen.”
Every clip would display the trainee’s name, and the style of the clip was tailored to their individual traits.
This part had already been arranged by the production team in consultation with each company. The storyboard was ready, so the trainees didn’t need to give input — they just had to film.
Yue Zhaolin nodded to show he understood.
Back in the practice room, everyone tacitly pulled out their lyric sheets and began practicing together.
The room filled with overlapping voices. The sound wasn’t exactly pleasant, but in Rong Ruize’s ears, it only made him feel all the more out of place.
Mao Ding was exasperated. Does this young master who keeps dragging us down have no self-awareness?
What’s he standing there for, waiting for someone to coddle him and offer comfort? Everyone’s polishing their debut-night stage — no one has time to orbit around him.
Even Yue Zhaolin was better than him, and nowhere near as arrogant.
Besides, ever since that GreenFruit knee-slide, Mao Ding had realized: the true heir of GreenFruit was only Yue Zhaolin. This so-called young master was, at best, just an adopted son.
Mao Ding: Ahem.
Now that’s what you call the real deal.JPG
But he had to admit — it suited him perfectly.
Yue Zhaolin had no idea anyone was thinking about him. Like a mushroom, he found a corner to curl up in and practiced his singing against the wall.
Since practice footage needed to be recorded, this was the only way he could carve out a relatively quiet personal space.
Before long, Yue Zhaolin was completely immersed in practice. The only thing he remembered in between was Cen Chi handing him a box of throat lozenges.
…
“Zhaolin, Zhaolin?”
“Mm?”
With his headphones on, Yue Zhaolin felt someone patting his shoulder. He quickly turned his head and saw a familiar staff member.
“Zhaolin, it’s time to shoot your short clip.”
“Oh, alright.”
…
Once Yue Zhaolin finished hair and makeup and arrived at the set, he realized his short film scene was half practical set, half green screen.
At the center of the green stage stood a bathtub — filled with roses. Beside it were props like speakers, a microphone, and a drum kit.
Makeup assistant: “Zhaolin, hold onto my hand and step into the tub.”
“Am I supposed to lie down later?”
Director: “Sit first.”
That day Yue Zhaolin wore a loose shirt from an obscure foreign brand, known for its high-end, androgynous designs.
The director positioned Yue Zhaolin’s hand on the edge of the tub. His pale, slender fingertips were wrapped in red yarn that trailed upward like veins.
“Bite down on a flower. Not across the stem — cut the stem short, leave about a centimeter, and hold it in your mouth.”
Next to him was a box of rose petals, prepared to be scattered over his clothes later.
“Now you can lie down.”
Yue Zhaolin did as instructed.
From this angle, the harsh fill lights blazed straight into his eyes, making him squint. Surrounded by the stage props, it felt almost like he was already on stage.
The lights on finals night would probably be just as blinding.
Suddenly, a thought struck him. Yue Zhaolin realized where he wanted to go during the holiday. Somewhere that might let him experience the finals-night atmosphere ahead of time—
He decided he would go to a live house.
Or, in other words, a small concert.