Chapter 73: The Third Performance (9)
A half-critical, half-praising evaluation is often the most motivating, and Lai Yudong knew this well—yet he still couldn’t help but feel encouraged.
The price he paid was falling asleep in the practice room again.
“—Wake up! Stop sleeping already!”
The chattering noise gave Lai Yudong a headache, accompanied by a sore back and aching shoulders. Sleeping on the rock-hard floor left his whole body uncomfortable.
Sleepily covering his eyes, he had no idea how long he’d been out, but it felt like he’d only just closed them for a few seconds. Waking up instantly was nearly impossible—unless someone shouted “Earthquake!” at the top of their lungs.
After all, he did need sleep too.
Lai Yudong rolled over, mumbling drowsily:
“Liang Zhisheng… what time is it now…”
“…The hell—open your eyes and take a good look at who I am!?”
“Mm…?”
Like a rolled-up sushi, Lai Yudong flipped back again. He lowered the arm covering his face, his half-lidded eyes still hazy with sleep, and for a long moment gave no further reaction.
Just as the other person was about to lose patience and kick him, Lai Yudong suddenly let out an “Ah,” the sleepiness in his gaze clearing away, replaced by a bright smile.
“Good morning, Li Xu.”
He made no mention of having called the wrong name, as if waking up had erased his memory.
[Wuwuwu I’m so anxious! Finally, someone came to find Yu-baby!]
[707, don’t be too…]
[One time Xu An is “Anmu,” another time Li Xu is “Liang Zhisheng” 👍]
[Li Hong nearly swore out loud, hahaha]
[Taking turns fishing fruit salad—when’s Anmu’s turn to be fished up?]
Lai Yudong looked pitifully aggrieved. He was so sleepy he hadn’t even opened his eyes, and by reflex assumed it was Liang Zhisheng—who had “fished him up” before. Instead, it turned out to be Li Xu yelling in his ear, and only after a beat did he realize something wasn’t right.
Li Xu took a deep breath. “What are you doing here?”
“Sleeping.”
“…I can see that! I have eyes! That’s not what I was really asking!” Li Xu regretted not kicking his roommate awake earlier. “Bro, it’s ten in the morning! Why don’t you just pitch a tent in the practice room?”
Ignoring the barking husky at his ear, Lai Yudong slowly sat up. He tried hard to recall—it seemed he had stubbornly pushed on until nine in the morning, and then…
And then he remembered nothing.
Turns out people really can’t keep challenging their limits.
Rubbing his eyes, Lai Yudong asked, “Why are you here?”
Li Xu had only left the practice room four or five hours ago, and it was still early before the afternoon roll call. No matter how diligent he was, it made no sense for him to show up here at this hour.
Besides, his outfit didn’t look like he’d come to practice. Although a long padded coat down to his ankles wrapped him tightly, the perpetually untidy collar gave away the pajamas he often wore underneath.
Could it be he came here just to find him?
“Woke up halfway through sleep to use the bathroom, and found your blanket neatly folded.” Li Xu gave a short snort. “Liang Zhisheng asked me to keep an eye on you, so after struggling with myself for a bit I decided to come check. Didn’t expect to actually catch you.”
Lai Yudong thought in surprise: “Liang Zhisheng?”
Li Xu shot him a sideways glance. “He said you have a record of falling asleep in the practice room.”
[Good thing Li Xu came, otherwise nobody would’ve scooped him up until the afternoon.]
[Mommy Liang’s soul lives on.]
[Yuzu only slept there once and he already remembered—so attentive.]
On the way back to the dorms, Li Xu spoke seriously: “Miura, come a little later this afternoon.”
“It’s fine.” Lai Yudong yawned. “I can wake up.”
“Fine, my ass.” Li Xu rolled his eyes. “It’s already past ten. We gather at two in the afternoon. Counting showering, eating, and waking up, you’ll only get three hours of sleep. Sure, you can wake up, but what—do you plan on waking up just once in your whole life?”
“But…the schedule is up to me. I’m the captain…”
Li Xu was firm: “Even if you’re the tribal chief, it won’t work.”
Lai Yudong: “…”
In that case, it wouldn’t be Gravity Falls but Gravity Tribe.
“Afternoon practice at two will be changed to self-practice. Group practice will be pushed to four. You come at four—I’ll explain it to them.” Li Xu laid down the new schedule without discussion.
Lai Yudong bargained: “How about three?”
“Three-thirty.”
“Deal.”
[As expected of Li Hongpo!]
[Why is there a new nickname update again?]
[Yuzu fans thank Li Xu for caring about our son 555]
[Good. I was afraid Yuzu fans commuting to and from work would end up walking ahead of Yuzu himself.]
[It’s fine for solo stans. The ones who suffer are dual stans—they sleep, then wake up, and repeats.]
[A new purification method: having sleep schedules in different time zones.]
In the days that followed, practice, recording demo tracks, and rehearsals all went smoothly according to schedule.
The routine after rehearsals was to record a practice-room version. With plenty of time and patient teammates, they polished it over and over, recording many takes.
Lai Yudong held up the tablet to watch the freshly finished version.
The singing, dancing, and rapping were fine. His expression management was also good. But it still felt like something was missing.
He kept dragging the progress bar back and forth, trying to pinpoint the issue.
Finally, on the scene where he squatted toward the camera rapping, he hit pause.
“Is something wrong there?”
Behind him, Yin Zizhen craned his neck on tiptoe, paying special attention to the rap section he had helped teach. But he lost his balance and toppled forward. In his panic, both hands landed on Lai Yudong’s shoulders, narrowly avoiding a clumsy fall.
Instinctively, Lai Yudong freed one hand to press down on the hand resting on his shoulder, worried the boy hadn’t steadied himself.
He casually rubbed the head that had bumped into his shoulder. The feel was soft—very much like a Bichon Frisé pouncing from behind.
[Why does this feel a little heartwarming]
[Looks like a younger brother leaping at his big brother to act spoiled]
[Two well-behaved darlings w]
[Xiao Yin is a minor, please be rational and don’t ship CP]
[Nobody’s shipping CP here, right? This pairing is strictly for family vibes]
“It’s not the rap that’s the issue,” Lai Yudong patiently explained. “Personally, I feel visually it lacks impact—especially when the arm is raised, it just looks… um… ordinary?”
Song Yanxi leaned in. “Isn’t that what rings and accessories are for?”
“That’s not the problem either.”
They had tried on the stage costumes backstage today. Lai Yudong could already picture the final effect of swapping practice clothes for performance outfits. But even with the addition of those rings, it still felt like something was missing.
The biggest issue was that it didn’t match the theme.
But this was a public performance stage, not some avant-garde art exhibit. He couldn’t exactly paint a few extra eyes on his face or turn his hands into tentacles. Lovecraftian elements were too ahead of their time for a general audience, and special makeup or props would take far too much effort.
So—how could he create a “grotesque” effect that the public would accept, at the lowest cost?
Lai Yudong fell into deep thought. Then suddenly, inspiration struck, fragments of ideas snapping together into a complete concept.
“Black nails?”
In countless comics and films, black-painted nails were often used to suggest a character’s non-human identity—like demons, monsters, or vengeful spirits.
If applied to this song, it would satisfy both the grotesque and the rebellious elements.
The former [black nails] reflected an inhuman quality; the latter was because, in the eyes of some conservative thinkers, men wearing nail polish was effeminate and improper. Yet the theme of Grotesque happened to be defiance of rules.
Gravity Falls was like a rules-based ghost story, filled with bizarre yet inescapable “dos and don’ts.” Wasn’t that, in its own way, a perfect match?
[Wow, black nails are so trendy]
[Genius Xiao Yu is here! The stage just leveled up!]
[Does this mean we can look forward to this guy designing the debut album’s MVs and music show stages?]
[Yes, please—let the company pay him two salaries]
[He hasn’t even debuted yet, and you’re already plotting to pluck Yuzu’s fur?]
Lai Yudong: …
What a strange phrase.
Fruit salad, pomelo peel, golden honey pomelo—fine. But pomelo fur? Are they sure that isn’t mold?
“Nail polish?” Song Yanxi’s eyes widened.
“Mm. I don’t know if it would suit?”
“It suits perfectly. A genius idea!”
Song Yanxi had once heard from his roommate Bai Xuanhe that the Bloody stage design owed much to this captain. But he hadn’t expected to experience it firsthand in the third performance.
Though the suggestions were small—fake blood, nail polish—each one added the perfect finishing touch.
They weren’t props nobody had ever imagined before. Some might even hear them and scoff, “That’s it?” But not everyone can think of such details at the right moment and apply them properly. It’s like knowledge itself: one person, when faced with a magnificent sight, can only stammer out “awesome,” while another, gazing at the Lushan Waterfall, can recite Memorial to Yueyang Tower.
And at the end of the day, this wasn’t even a trainee’s duty.
If the stage aesthetics didn’t pass muster, it was the production team that got scolded. By the third round, nobody was expecting a stage performance to turn popularity around anymore. As long as the main act didn’t explode with some shocking scandal, the rest all depended on fans and the company.
The more Song Yanxi thought about it, the more admiration he felt. He couldn’t help but sigh, “You’re so responsible toward the stage.”
Lai Yudong tilted his head in puzzlement. “Isn’t that normal…?”
Forget idols—even anyone performing on stage ought to be responsible for it. Wasn’t that the most basic professional ethic?
Song Yanxi only smiled, saying nothing. Some opinions weren’t suitable to voice in front of cameras.
Yin Zizhen, who had been listening in the whole time, only cared about one thing: “Brother Yuki, are we all going to paint them?”
“It’ll look better if we’re consistent.”
This wasn’t something one person could decide. Lai Yudong first discussed it with all his teammates, and once they unanimously agreed, he brought the idea up to the director’s team.
With the second performance’s success as precedent, and no desire to suppress the Grotesque group, such a simple request was, of course, approved without hesitation.
However, it was already too late at night—the makeup artists had long since gone home.
Two options lay before them.
One: wait until the makeup artists clocked in to do everyone’s nails. But tomorrow was the stage recording, and timing might be tight—there was a chance the polish wouldn’t even be dry when the performance began.
Two: do it themselves. The dressing room did have black nail polish, and being prepared early would be reassuring. The problem was, with seven people in their group, not a single one had likely ever painted even one of their own fingernails.
Lai Yudong silently shifted his gaze toward fashion blogger Song Yanxi, pinning all his hopes on him.
Song Yanxi: “…”
He felt guilty yet helpless. “I’m into styling and makeup. Manicures aren’t part of my expertise.”
[The closest Brother Xi has ever come to a manicure was clipping his cat’s nails]
[Time to expand into a new line of business 233]
[Painting nails in a single color shouldn’t be that hard, right?]
[Depends on the person. I picked it up naturally, but my roommate’s nails end up looking like the surface of the moon.]
Lai Yudong had seen his mom paint her nails at home before, so he barely counted as having experience. But he couldn’t guarantee his results wouldn’t turn out like the “moon surface” described in the comments.
If it came out messy, they’d waste even more time removing it.
Just as he hesitated about whether to do it himself, a lazy voice sounded from the side: “I’ll do it.”
The speaker was Zhao Yifeng, retying his braids. After recording dozens of practice-room takes, his hair had been danced loose.
Lai Yudong’s eyes lit up in delight. “You know how?”
“Wouldn’t say I know exactly, but I’ve painted my own before.” Zhao Yifeng grabbed the little tuft at the end of his hair with one hand, stretched the hair tie with the other, and deftly looped it through. “I once painted them on livestream for fans. Haven’t done it for someone else, but it should be about the same.”
Lai Yudong gazed at him, eyes shining. “I’m counting on you!”
