Royal Ch.94

Chapter 94: Endangered Species

Shen Yin chose to sing Temperature Gap—a sweet little wish that many fans shared: wanting to sing the song of someone they liked.

If more people could get to know Yue Zhaolin through this, then maybe go on to understand him, feel good about him—that would be wonderful too.

Shen Yin had rushed onto the stage without much thought. She didn’t have a lot of performance experience, and with such a big occasion, once the nerves hit, they were impossible to stop.

The expressions in the audience weren’t encouraging, which only made Shen Yin stiffen up further as she sang.

The heat behind her ears kept rising, and she didn’t know where to rest her gaze.

That’s when she saw him—

A tall young man, his face mostly hidden under a mask and cap, striding straight to the VIP section rail. He lifted his hand, making gestures toward the singer on stage.

The venue was dim, his face indistinguishable, but his outstretched arm and fingers were long and graceful, carrying a trace of urgency.

So… familiar.

For a split second, Shen Yin was stunned.

She didn’t know how she recognized him, but from his figure and those eyes beneath the brim’s shadow, she was certain—it was Yue Zhaolin.

Cuocuo shivered in surprise, the trending moment practically falling into his lap: “Wow, does this handsome guy want to sing along too?” He quickly asked Shen Yin, “Beauty, are you okay with that?”

Shen Yin clapped a hand over her mouth and nodded frantically.

She was so overwhelmed with excitement she couldn’t even speak, her whole face flushed bright red.

Cuocuo knew how to play up the act: “Alright, let’s get him another mic! Everyone, how about some applause—let’s welcome this handsome guy up on stage, shall we?!”

“Ye—s!” the crowd responded.

But Shen Yin’s unusual reaction made the audience start whispering to one another in doubt.

Most people in the crowd had their phones up filming, so those further back could only see that outstretched hand on the screens in front of them.

“What’s going on?”

“Why’s this girl so worked up?”

“Did her boyfriend just propose?”

Why would they jump to that conclusion? Because it had happened before—boyfriends preparing surprise proposals in live houses, just because their girlfriends were fans of the scene.

Someone shouted, “Lower your hand up front, I can’t film the male lead!”

Good-natured laughter rippled around.

But two seconds later, the laughter vanished, replaced by confusion:

“Wait, why’d they turn on the original singer’s background track?”

“…Hold up, that’s not right?!”

Temperature Gap was supposed to be just instrumental accompaniment, yet suddenly a male voice cut in. And it didn’t just sound similar to the original singer—

it was exactly the same.

But it was clearly not a studio track. The rawness, the resonance—this was unmistakably live.

Could it be that tonight wasn’t Yue Zhaolin, but some knockoff—“Ri Zhaolin”?

Then, a passionate shift in pitch blasted from the front:

“Holy shit, it is Yue Zhaolin?!”

“What, Yue Zhaolin?!”

“Ahhh!”

The words had barely landed when the audience collectively transformed into a sea urchin—phones shooting up in perfect unison, screens glowing everywhere.

Those countless screens all captured the same figure.

His outfit was nothing special—black T-shirt and pants, a cap and mask covering his face. But the moment you laid eyes on him, you just knew he wasn’t ordinary.

So tall. So lean. That presence people online summed up in one phrase: “star aura.”

“Damn…”

“No wonder he’s a celebrity—that look is just unbeatable.”

“Wait, Yue Zhaolin’s that tall?!”

“Ahhhhhhh—!”

The audience erupted into chaos.

The stage wasn’t any calmer either.

Yue Zhaolin’s voice was in her ears, and now his figure was right in front of her. Yet as Yue Zhaolin walked toward her, Shen Yin instinctively stepped back.

And then—her tears fell.

She didn’t even know what she was crying for.

The joy of being rescued by the very person she admired when she was at her most awkward, the thrill of seeing someone she liked with her own eyes, or the sudden materialization of what had always been just an illusory kind of idol-chasing fantasy—

Shen Yin wasn’t sure which it was.

But the truth was, she cried. And when Yue Zhaolin walked toward her, her instinct was to step back.

—Her brain’s limbic system had been triggered. Adrenaline and dopamine surged wildly, leading to rapid breathing, trembling, and tears.

“I’m sorry…”

“Are you alright?”

Two voices overlapped.

Yue Zhaolin lowered his mic, keeping a respectful distance as he handed her a clean tissue.

“It should be me apologizing. Did I scare you?”

“N-no…”

She still hadn’t managed to calm down from that state, and the closer Yue Zhaolin got, the more excited she became.

Yue Zhaolin figured she needed to settle her emotions. And since she was wearing beautiful makeup, she surely wouldn’t want her tear-streaked face to be caught on so many cameras.

He softly comforted the Tide fan, then exchanged a few words with the staff nearby.

The stage couldn’t stay silent forever. Soon, Yue Zhaolin removed his mask, smiling as he introduced himself:

“Good evening, everyone. I’m Yue Zhaolin.”

The cheers that had never really stopped from the audience surged into a fresh new wave.

Cuocuo, ever the perfect sidekick, widened his eyes in mock outrage:

“Wow, so fickle—you guys didn’t even cheer half as loud for me earlier!”

“Because you’re family, there’s nothing fresh about you anymore!” someone shouted back.

Cuocuo: “???”

That was the downside of being a resident singer at a live house—everyone knew him too well, so they spoke with no restraint at all, treating him like one of their own.

Even Yue Zhaolin laughed.

Cuocuo went on, “Fine, I’m family, huh? Then family gets to enjoy the perks first!”

He suddenly changed the subject, pulling out his phone from his back pocket and lowering his voice deliberately:

“Come on, Zhaolin, let’s take a selfie—ignore that noisy crowd down there.”

“You bastard—!”

The audience erupted in excitement.

Yue Zhaolin’s attention, however, remained on that one Tide fan. Seeing that she had calmed down quite a bit, he felt reassured, then reached for Cuocuo’s phone—

And with a subtle adjustment, he shifted the selfie camera angle so that it included not only the two of them but also the entire audience behind.

Cuocuo: …oh damn.

Yue Zhaolin had guided the angle by gently holding Cuocuo’s hand. The motion wasn’t forceful, his strength was soft, almost careful—yet it nearly made Cuocuo embarrassed.

That’s the aura of a superstar. Up close, no matter if you were male or female, you’d end up a little dazzled.

“Zhaolin must’ve come to MOODY tonight just for me, right? After all, ever since I went on I Am an Original, I’ve basically become a superstar myself.”

I Am an Original was that music variety show on GreenFruit.

“Boooo—” the audience booed him down.

Cuocuo clicked his tongue. “Alright, alright, I won’t joke around. Honestly, I didn’t know Zhaolin was down there in the crowd. But since you’re already here, how about singing a song before you go?”

“Besides, this young lady’s your fan.” Cuocuo chuckled, deliberately steering the spotlight back onto Shen Yin. “Let’s interview her a bit—are you super excited right now?”

Because Shen Yin’s reaction had been so intense, Cuocuo worried her emotions might overload, so he brought over two stools—one for her, and one for Yue Zhaolin.

Shen Yin had calmed down somewhat, but her adrenaline hadn’t yet subsided. “Very excited,” she admitted.

It wasn’t an exaggeration. At the moment, she felt like she had just finished a bungee jump off a cliff.

“And Zhaolin, what do you want to sing?”

Yue Zhaolin turned his head toward Shen Yin, his tone light and smiling as he sought her opinion:

“Temperature Gap. Is that alright?” It was, after all, the song his Tide fan liked and was good at.

Of course it was!

Shen Yin felt something indescribably strange—when it came to Yue Zhaolin’s impact on her, his looks were only a small part. What struck her more were his actions.

She didn’t know how to put it into words.

From the moment he stretched out his arm to save the situation, to giving her time to calm down, to even the staff coming over to ask if she needed a touch-up—

The more Shen Yin thought about it, the only word that came to mind, though overused, was—

Gentle.

Before, Shen Yin could still tell herself she was “just a fan of the music,” but this time she was completely hammered into the pit, because she realized…

Yue Zhaolin was simply a really good person.

This time, Temperature Gap was performed with live guitar accompaniment. Compared to the original backing track, the guitar’s grainy texture and brightness gave it an entirely different flavor.

Yue Zhaolin sat on a high stool, and wanting to lead his Tide fan along, he deliberately sang the opening line with more power:

“Breathing longs, for your desire.”

He was a bit too close to the mic and popped it, but quickly steadied himself. His expression, though, was amusing—his eyes went wide, then he laughed it off.

“Head crammed with nonsense, body heat burning hot.”

“Why feel regret? Youth must roam—

It’s only your yearning, burning too strong when set free.”

The eyes of the audience followed his every movement, and countless phone screens faithfully recorded each moment.

…

Yue Zhaolin’s vocal cords were naturally strong, so singing wasn’t difficult for him. Still, since he hadn’t practiced Temperature Gap in a long while, there were inevitable imperfections.

But he was happy.

The duet with his Tide fan, the chorus with the crowd—it let him experience what it meant to connect with the audience, to feel the essence of a true live performance.

As the final line faded out, the crowd erupted with enthusiasm, shouting for Yue Zhaolin to sing another song.

But that wasn’t possible. His presence had only been “exposed” for ten minutes, and already a crowd of fans had gathered outside—not to mention those still rushing over.

“You’re leaving already?”

“But you only sang one song!” The audience was reluctant to let him go.

This wasn’t like a proper signing event or fan meeting. The longer Yue Zhaolin stayed, the more uncontrollable the crowd would become. He could only apologize.

Yue Zhaolin said, “Ah, could I ask everyone for a favor? Can you help me record a short video and send it out?”

“Yes!”

“Go ahead, we’re recording—”

Yue Zhaolin’s expression turned serious:

“I want to tell Tide that I’m leaving now, so don’t rush over here. It’s already late at night, and I’d worry.”

For some people, nightlife was only just beginning, but Yue Zhaolin’s fanbase wasn’t made up entirely of that group—there were certainly younger fans among them.

So Yue Zhaolin felt he had a kind of “responsibility” to set a good example.

“After this, I’ll head back to the Starlight dorms. I know everyone misses me a lot, so I’ll talk to the production team and request to open a dorm livestream.”

“So later during the stream, I’ll be checking up on you all,”—he chuckled at the phrase himself—“basically, I’ll ask if you’ve all made it home safely.”

Cuocuo: what a sappy guy.

Was it just because he was good-looking, that when he said things like this it didn’t sound cheesy at all, but instead genuinely heartwarming?

After that, Yue Zhaolin also thanked the venue, the band, the audience, and the Tide who had sung alongside him.

He waved: “Bye, everyone—”

The whole place erupted with a chorus of “bye-bye!”

When Shen Yin finally stepped down in a daze, her friend shook her hard:

“Didn’t you say you liked Yue Zhaolin? Why didn’t you talk to him more? Why so reserved?”

Shen Yin: “……”

It wasn’t reservation—it was respect. Besides, this wasn’t the right occasion to say too much.

Everything that had happened today felt like a dream. She no longer had the mood to listen to the band, she just wanted to hurry home, quickly write up her report, and share it with all the other Tide sisters—

Yue Zhaolin was truly wonderful!

—

[Goose Gossip Group | Other trainees pull out every trick, spreading their tails like peacocks, but none of it compares to Emperor Yue’s single move—already #1 on trending across all platforms]

[Original Post]

RT.

I really had to laugh when I opened Weibo today. The trainees honestly gave it their all—the trending page was full of them, like a whole flock of male peacocks showing off their tails. But in the end, one move came along and wiped them all out.

The Goose Group’s darling never disappoints. From now on, instead of “Emperor Yue,” we should call him “Moon God.”

[Screenshots] [Screenshots] [Screenshots]

[1F] Emperor Yue is our group’s darling, sure, but OP, you just exposed our trump card too blatantly!

[6F] Everyone knows Yue Zhaolin isn’t just Goose Group’s sweetheart—he’s also Douyin’s sweetheart, Bilibili’s sweetheart. Weibo doesn’t count though (way too many bloggers here hate him).

(That includes, but isn’t limited to, certain gay beauty bloggers, military bloggers, and film critics.)

[13F] Honestly, being hated by that crowd actually proves Yue Zhaolin’s value in reverse.

[19F] Let’s be real—whenever there’s even the slightest stir about Yue Zhaolin, that bunch comes running. Isn’t it basically like dog training? They’ve been conditioned.

[23F] Or maybe they’re just leeching off his popularity.

[28F] I checked the trending list—my reaction was the same as OP’s title.

Trainees are on holiday, so people are “bumping into” them everywhere nationwide. Videos are flooding in, I thought today was lively enough already. Then this happened—boom, a real big one.

[32F] If I read a scene like this in a self-insert fangirl novel, I’d laugh and close it, because it’s too dreamy. (smiles)

[38F] But if your idol came to personally save you onstage… yeah, I’d be hopelessly devoted too.

[41F] The person involved is already hopelessly devoted. And the audience at the venue? Full of praise for Yue Zhaolin. He just converted a bunch of passerby fans offline.

[44F] And it wasn’t just “saving the stage,” either.

Look at the report the girl herself posted on Weibo—he thought about her emotional state and even her makeup. A male idol being that considerate? Unbelievable.

[46F] The reason chasing male idols often leads to disappointment is because once they realize they’re being adored, they start getting greasy and turn into your average self-absorbed guy.

Maybe in the early stages of debut they’ll still put in effort for their fans, but the longer they’re in the industry, the more perfunctory they become.

As for Yue, whether he’s sincere or just acting, I don’t care—I only pray he never changes.

[50F] If he is acting, then Emperor Yue, please act all the way through your idol career. Leave Xiufen with a relatively beautiful memory, okay? Okay.

[54F] Attracting fans really is metaphysics—just showing his face for ten minutes brought in so many diehard fans.

[59F] I checked on Douyin. Among the three parts—his quick rescue, the performance, and the closing words—the closing words actually got the most likes.

[66F] Blind guess: it must’ve been that part where he checked up on fans.

[73F] Speaking from the standpoint of a “boyfriend” and saying that kind of thing could come off greasy, but he wasn’t greasy at all, nor did it feel preachy.

The main reason it worked was because of the lead-in—his genuine concern for fans’ safety.

And honestly, it was pretty late at night, around nine.

[87F] But wasn’t his Douyin reputation bad? Like during that third-stage re-recording?

[92F] Obviously, people are falling for him again (even if it’s not the same crowd).

That part really hit a nerve. So many reposts, all praising how sincere he is toward fans.

[101F] “The only refined grain in the entertainment industry—Yue Zhaolin.”

“Finally, C-ent has an idol worth showing off. As long as he doesn’t fall from grace, I’m willing to spoil him.”

“Yue Zhaolin, just a normal person—and that’s the highest praise I can give a man.”

“I thought C-ent was trash so I switched to K-pop, but I got cut into dozens of tiny screens at a fansign, I was furious. So I came back to chase Yue Zhaolin.”

[114F] What does that “cutting to small screen” mean?

[118F] It’s about online fansigns in K-pop. You know how they usually do it via video call?

The whole thing only lasts like two minutes, so both the idol and the fan should be making the most of the time to interact. But instead, the idol puts themselves on the big screen while the fan is shoved into a tiny window.

How are you supposed to interact if you can’t even see the fan properly?

[121F] So then the fan asks them to switch, the idol reluctantly switches the fan into the big screen, interacts a bit, and then switches back—just to admire their own face on the big screen again.

In those two minutes, some idols can switch the screen sizes over ten times.

[126F] Wait, but this is a paid fansign. Shouldn’t their attention be on the fan? Why are they spending it admiring their own reflection??

[135F] Getting paid to check themselves out in the mirror, basically.

[138F] Always thought K-pop stans were fed “finely sifted bran” (premium treatment), but turns out it’s like this too… (sighs in shared misery).

[145F] Which is why Yue Zhaolin is like an endangered species in both the idol circle and the male species. He’s been officially listed as a top-level nationally protected animal of C-ent.

[150F] Report—Emperor Yue just started livestreaming!

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