Royal Ch.97

Chapter 97: See you on finals night

Two minutes ago, Fu Xunying was still lying on his dorm bed watching the livestream.

Someone knocked on Yue Zhaolin’s door but didn’t say anything, and Fu Xunying got curious. He slipped on his slippers, got out of bed, pulled the door open—and hey, wasn’t this the Zhihu Bro guy?

Fu Xunying had never had a pleasant expression for him, so he asked right away:

“What do you want?”

Previously, Zhu Zhu had spread a whole load of rumors on Zhihu, dragging down the entire upper circle, yet he had never once lowered his head to apologize to anyone.

But then, on camera, he’d put on the act of being a good brother. And if others didn’t want to play along, he’d just pull a long horse face, as if they owed him something.

That kind of shameless righteousness made Fu Xunying even more convinced that his brain wasn’t screwed on right.

So what business could he have with Yue Zhaolin?

“You—”

Zhu Zhu was startled by Fu Xunying. Not wanting to get entangled with him, he tried to push the door open and go straight in.

His actions and expression perfectly illustrated the saying “no three hundred taels of silver buried here.”

Even a fool like Fu Xunying could tell the guy was up to no good.

“Damn it, what are you trying to do?”

His own dorm room was close to Yue Zhaolin’s, so Fu Xunying rushed over and physically blocked him.

Hearing the commotion, the trainee managers watching the livestream from an empty room nearby opened their door, only to see the two of them shoving each other. They couldn’t help shouting out loud.

Fu Xunying was a delicate rich young master, while Zhu Zhu was stronger. Losing the upper hand, Fu Xunying slammed against the door panel with a bang, the back of his head ringing from the impact.

The two trainee managers were dumbfounded—what on earth had gotten into Zhu Zhu?

Not until Yue Zhaolin opened the door, when Zhu Zhu’s nostrils flared with excitement and he shrieked out that performance of his, did the trainee managers’ expressions twist in disbelief.

He deliberately chose to shout it out on livestream—did he really think there wouldn’t be consequences for Yue Zhaolin?

Perhaps the bullying controversy would cling to Yue Zhaolin, but something he hadn’t done was something he hadn’t done. Clearing it up would be as simple as releasing the hallway surveillance footage.

Besides, Zhu Zhu had spread rumors in a high-traffic livestream. That made it serious.

If Yue Zhaolin’s commercial value were affected because of this, Xingqiong and the production team could even sue him for “damaging reputation.”

And since Zhu Zhu had managed to slip through the cracks this time, it would certainly count as negligence on both managers’ parts.

The trainee managers were so furious they practically wanted to wring Zhu Zhu’s neck, until—

Yue Zhaolin looked at Zhu Zhu, pinned down by the two managers, admired his expression for half a second, then smiled gently:

“I muted the livestream audio.”

The triumphant look on Zhu Zhu’s face froze solid, his eyes filled with disbelief.

The air went still.

The two managers, who had thought their careers might end right there, suddenly lit up with wild joy at this unexpected twist.

Fu Xunying laughed even louder, almost feral:

“Why isn’t the clown barking anymore? Oh right, the sound’s off—no audience. Who are you performing for?”

Zhu Zhu’s eyes widened:

“You—!”

Yue Zhaolin arched a brow, mischief sparking:

“Just kidding. I didn’t mute it.”

“What’s the matter? The moment I said I turned the sound off, you stopped acting?”

…He tricked him?!

Zhu Zhu’s face twitched as the realization sank in. He hadn’t checked his phone, so whether Yue Zhaolin had muted the sound or not was entirely his word.

He’d been duped. It was over.

Instead of smearing Yue Zhaolin, he’d only managed to disgrace himself.

Yue Zhaolin chuckled, toying with him like a dog: “No way… you actually believed me again?”

Zhu Zhu panted heavily.

Seeing the smug curve of Yue Zhaolin’s smile, adrenaline surged. He tore free from the managers’ grip and swung a fist straight at Yue Zhaolin’s face.

About to lash out in humiliation, Zhu Zhu moved too fast—Fu Xunying only had time to bark out a single syllable:

“Hey—!”

Then Yue Zhaolin grabbed Zhu Zhu’s arm and, with crisp efficiency, sent him flying with an over-the-shoulder throw.

Bang—!

Zhu Zhu let out a pig-like squeal.

For people like this, Yue Zhaolin always enjoyed kicking them while they were down. He deliberately crouched, lowered his head to look at Zhu Zhu, and said:

“Oh, I forgot to mention—I can fight.”

Zhu Zhu was dazed from the throw, but he must have heard that line. His eyes bulged like copper bells, his breathing rough like an ox.

Vision swimming, he saw Fu Xunying sprawled on the floor nearby:

“…Brother Zhaolin, amazing.”

Yue Zhaolin: “…”

This guy had always called him directly by name, and he’d gotten used to it. Since when was it “Brother Zhaolin”?

Fu Xunying rubbed the back of his head. Since Yue Zhaolin had basically avenged him, he asked, “Did you learn that somewhere? That throw was clean.”

“No. Just rough brawling.”

So the throw wasn’t exactly textbook.

But Zhu Zhu was seeing stars, couldn’t even get up, and lay on the ground groaning that his bones were broken.

When he was carried off, he was still yelling that Yue Zhaolin had used excessive force in self-defense, that he’d nearly been killed, and that he would sue.

The result of the examination: soft tissue bruising. A few days of ointment and he’d be good as new.

“…”

What a waste of space.

Before, he’d had at least some salvageable value. After all, moral scandals were nothing new in the industry. If capital decided to, they could still force him upward. But—

Capital didn’t mind fools. What they couldn’t accept was someone who was stupid and malicious and disobedient.

Meanwhile, with no sound from the livestream, the Tide fandom treated the scrolling comments like a group chat.

[No idea what’s happening outside]

[Did Yueyue go to watch the fun?]

[Little Moon is so cute ww]

[Saw a repo that Yueyue and Little Moon had a photo together at the third performance—will the show release it?]

[Time for the merch sites to rise up, I want a plushie of Little Moon, waaah]

[And one of Yueyue too, then put them together at home—wouldn’t that be a family of three?]

[Friendly reminder: your Labor Day holiday balance is running out; good news: only fifteen days left until the finals]

[Time to fight for finals tickets]

[Based on past survival shows, the tickets probably won’t all go on Damai, there should be other apps too. The official announcement should come in the next couple of days?]

[They used to do a three-sided stage, that’s fifteen thousand seats, my eyes just went black]

…

[Feels like he’s been gone a long time…]

[Little Moon, your dad still hasn’t come back]

…

[Still not back?]

[Worried]

[It’s been so long, did something happen?]

The barrage, lighthearted at first, gradually shifted toward unease.

After all, everyone had heard what sounded like people arguing outside earlier.

Just then, a figure stepped back into the frame.

Yue Zhaolin sat down at his desk again, pushed up the black-rimmed glasses on his nose, reached out, and switched the mic back on:

“I’m back.”

[Ahhhhh?!]

[Why did he change clothes—]

[Nosebleed…]

A thin beige sweater, neckline not very wide, showing a bit of his collarbone. But because the fabric was light, his collarbones pushed against it, outlining the shape beneath.

His unstyled hair fell over his forehead and partly covered his upper eyelids, giving him a different kind of allure.

Behind the black frames, the corners of his eyes looked soft and beautiful as he smiled at the screen.

[I have some very unholy thoughts]

[I want to kiss him]

[Don’t tell me that thin sweater isn’t seducing me? The straight line of his collarbone pushing up the fabric is way too sexy]

[This whole look is way too domestic, and at this hour it’s even more delicious—is this Husband Yue’s late-night whispering channel? Subscribed]

[That smile ahhh]

[Husband]

The barrage was filled with cries of “husband.”

The explosion of comments had already swept away the earlier worry. Tide was always easily satisfied—and always easily bewitched by Yue Zhaolin.

[Why does it feel like that expression is both helpless and indulgent at the same time]

[He’s too close, I’m so nervous, Yue Zhaolin stop going at me!!!]

[Daddy]

[Baby disappeared for so long—was it on purpose, just to set up this surprise?]

[Man, you’ve successfully piqued my interest (evil smirk.JPG)]

[As long as you’re willing to dedicate yourself to me, that’s enough]

Mm, the logic checked out.

Yue Zhaolin didn’t bother to explain, just smiled and asked:

“Shall we continue from where we left off? Or should we double-check with everyone—is this the song?”

He flipped his phone around and held it closer to the camera.

But his fingertip slipped, and it jumped back to the home screen. Aside from the app, in the top right corner was a small widget showing a photo.

Realizing it, Yue Zhaolin immediately pulled his hand back:

“Ah, hold on.”

His reaction was fast—almost like he really didn’t want anyone to see that photo.

[Huh?]

[We didn’t even get a clear look]

[What’s there that can’t be seen?]

[I know this move way too well. Back when I stanned K-pop idols—male idols’ lock screens would be photos of their secret girlfriends, then they’d panic and try to cover it up]

[Don’t spread rumors]

[I didn’t even say anything yet, why are the fans already so defensive? Did I hit a nerve?]

[At the live house, wasn’t he just acting? I don’t believe male idols think that far ahead. And the way it shot up the hot search—it’s all like a scripted drama]

[Overdone. Looks fake at first glance]

[What’s wrong with you?]

[That picture wasn’t even a person’s portrait. Try spreading another rumor, see what happens?]

It had only flashed for a moment on stream, but sharp-eyed viewers noticed it was something red.

[If it’s not a portrait, that makes it even harder to understand—why not just show it?]

[Red? Could be roses he gave his girlfriend, hehe]

[?]

[Got some kind of gatekeeping disease? Spouting your baseless imagination in this livestream, people will just think you’ve lost it. Can you get out?]

[Doesn’t matter—being stubborn is just standard behavior for low-IQ Mom-fans of male idols]

There were always hate comments during an idol’s livestream. If not managed, they could even be used later as a way to guilt-trip fans.

But judging from the ones leaving the hate, it didn’t necessarily mean they hated Yue Zhaolin—they simply enjoyed venting their malice in front of an audience.

If an idol showed discomfort, it only excited them more. That’s why most idols chose to endure and pretend they hadn’t seen such comments.

But Yue Zhaolin didn’t want to endure:

“You can attack me, but don’t attack my fans.”

He lifted his phone right up to the camera:

“Now, did you see clearly what it was?”

[Baby, don’t look at the hate comments]

[That’s…]

[A flower wall?!]

After the first public performance, the top nine trainees in the vote attended a fan meeting. Yue Zhaolin’s support site had decorated a huge, beautiful flower wall.

When the fan meeting ended, Yue Zhaolin had to rush to the set of R.E., and he had snapped a photo of it then.

The widget on his phone randomly displayed photos, and it just happened to land on this one.

But since the show officially required “closed training” where trainees couldn’t use phones, Yue Zhaolin had instinctively pulled his phone back.

He hadn’t expected that reflex to spark trouble.

It was his first flower wall, a very precious gesture of support.

[Baby…]

[More than once, I’ve felt it—Tide is truly cherished by Zhaolin]

[He only spoke up because Tide was being insulted]

[Yue Zhaolin, waaah, I want to spend money on you]

[I already screenshotted that person’s ID. I’ll look them up right away. What’s wrong with them, coming here to stir up trouble?]

[Clicked their profile—oh wow, stanning some ugly nobody from K-pop, don’t know a single one. Guess I’ll drag your fave into this too]

The ill-timed barrage of comments was quickly silenced when Yue Zhaolin himself spoke up firmly. Fans who had dug up his Weibo didn’t even have time to lash out or put on a tough front—they immediately switched on “one-click protection,” perfectly embodying what it means to be weak yet still love to play.

Yue Zhaolin didn’t bother with them any further. He focused instead on fulfilling the requests his fans made.

Over the next hour, he sang in Mandarin, Cantonese, English, and Japanese, one after another.

His pronunciation wasn’t accurate, his pitch wasn’t spot-on, and in some songs the female vocal parts were too high—without lowering the key, his real voice couldn’t reach them, and he ended up sounding like Mickey Mouse.

Even he couldn’t help laughing at himself, but he was genuinely happy.

It was an imperfect yet perfect, vivid, and real Yue Zhaolin, and an audience completely immersed in this atmosphere of intimacy.

The livestream felt like a beautiful dream.

Until the very last song ended.

“This really is the last one, because it’s very late now and everyone needs to sleep.”

He had already said “last one” several times, but the scrolling comments always begged him to stay just a little longer—just one more song, one more moment.

The reluctance came not only from the viewers, but from him too.

[Is it really ending?]

[I don’t want it to end.]

[Uuu, will you stream again tomorrow?]

[Didn’t the show give two days off? Please, production team, we got tonight’s stream—can’t we have another one tomorrow?]

Yue Zhaolin pressed his lips together. Knowing the show, they were likely aiming for scarcity, and probably wouldn’t allow another stream.

Looking at the flood of reluctant messages, he couldn’t quite figure out what to say as his closing words.

“…Goodbye, everyone. See you on finals night.”

Tomorrow, he’d be back to training.

Working hard for the finals.

—

The next day.

After Yue Zhaolin threw himself back into practice, Fu Xunying remembered last night’s barrage of comments. He also felt that streaming again today could be beneficial.

After all, all that sweat from training so earnestly—it was the kind of material that both tormented fans and strengthened their loyalty.

But then Fu Xunying thought again—

This person had never been one for gimmicks. He preferred to keep his head down, work solidly, and then stun everyone in one go.

<< _ >>