Chapter 96: Finals (7)
Backstage at the finals, Lai Yudong changed clothes at the fastest speed of his life.
The vocal group was the first batch to perform. As soon as they finished changing, they had to head straight to the prep area—no time for even a second of rest.
So this was what the hectic pace of an idol’s work felt like.
Facing the mirror, Lai Yudong adjusted his metallic tie clip. The chain on the other end was clipped to his collar, curving downward in a smooth arc.
“What do I do? I’m so nervous I’m about to lose it.”
Song Yanxi, also in the vocal group, came out clutching the wall for support. “It’s over, my mind’s blank—what if I forget the lyrics on stage and end up on a black trending list…”
Lai Yudong glanced at him. “Song Yanxi, your collar’s flipped wrong.”
Song Yanxi rushed to the mirror, took one look, then grabbed his head and wailed, “It’s even worse—I’m so nervous I can’t even dress myself right!”
Lai Yudong: “…”
Lai Yudong said, “Drink some water and calm down.”
Under the guidance of the staff, the seven members of the vocal group walked down the corridor leading to the stage. The venue was divided into several small stages, and as soon as one trainee’s performance ended, the camera would immediately transition seamlessly to the next.
The first performer from the vocal group—and also the very first performance of the entire finals—was Zhao Yifeng.
And the second was Lai Yudong.
“Aren’t you nervous?” Zhao Yifeng glanced sideways at the blond-haired boy beside him, speaking in his usual lazy tone. He remembered how, during both the initial and first public performance stages, the other’s hands had been shaking so badly he could barely hold the mic.
“A little,” Lai Yudong said with a small laugh. “But not as bad as Song Yanxi.”
“Really? Your voice is trembling a bit.”
“It’s fine. Once I’m on stage, it’ll be okay. You just don’t get too nervous yourself.”
Lai Yudong wasn’t afraid of the stage or the camera. After all, as a broadcasting student, he had been through countless art exam interviews and on-campus events of all sizes.
It was just that singing on stage wasn’t his area of expertise—especially not with this notoriously difficult song from his own “black history.”
Nervousness was inevitable.
But he believed that effort would never be in vain—just like every stage he had stood on before.
The stage lights came on, illuminating the figure standing at center stage.
From the second-stage backstage area, Lai Yudong watched Zhao Yifeng step into the light. The other’s usual low ponytail had been changed into a half-up samurai-style knot, which, surprisingly, suited him even better.
Zhao Yifeng’s song was “As the Sun Rises,” the first cover he had ever posted online. It was the song that had brought him unprecedented attention—both applause and criticism alike—the beginning of everything.
No matter what people said, Zhao Yifeng was always Zhao Yifeng: true to himself, clear about his goals.
He had stumbled his way down a road most people couldn’t bear to walk, and in the end, he fulfilled his promise to his fans—to sing on a bigger stage.
Just like the song’s title, his bright future was only beginning.
[Zhao Yifeng! If you love singing, then keep singing!]
[Don’t go back to being just an online singer—you deserve a bigger stage!]
[I was listening to this song just yesterday.]
[It’s been three years, hasn’t it? He’s finally singing “As the Sun Rises” again.]
[Zhao Yifeng, make big money! Sing your own songs next time!]
As Zhao Yifeng’s voice filled the air, Lai Yudong carefully read each barrage comment that floated past the screen.
The scrolling messages not only bridged the distance between him and the Yuzu fans, but also let him sense what fans of other contestants were feeling.
No matter who they supported, fans’ hearts were always the same.
It was a beautiful and passionate kind of love.
The one-minute performance ended, and the camera shifted to the next stage.
A wave of excited screams erupted from the audience.
A spotlight swept over Lai Yudong. His cream-pearl-gold hair seemed to be coated in a layer of silvery-white moonlight, soft and clear.
His outfit echoed his debut stage: a blazer paired with a white shirt, but the overall style was much more casual.
The mid-length black jacket hung open in a relaxed cut. One side of his shirt was tucked into his pants, revealing an accessory hooked onto his belt: several silver chains strung with hollowed metal butterflies that glittered like stars under the lights.
Just standing there, he radiated an intense presence.
[Can’t believe Yuzu is in the vocal group??]
[I thought for sure he’d go dance]
[Holy crap! He’s singing “Lose Heart”!?]
[No wonder the show kept hiding his solo stage—what a huge surprise]
[I’m already crying and he hasn’t even started singing…]
[Even if Yuzu sings like the sky is falling, I’ll still adore him]
[I want to hear it but I’m so nervous quq]
[Lai Lai, sing if you want to! Mom will always support you!]
Looking at the glowing lightboards held up for him, Lai Yudong’s heart thumped faster and faster, yet his mood was inexplicably calm.
This was his first time using a handheld mic on a formal stage.
He would not let Xu An down, nor his fans, nor himself.
As for everything else—let it be.
Lai Yudong slowly raised the mic. There was no pitch tuner for beginners ahead of him, but his rhythm and pitch were no longer what they used to be:
“I’m tired of holding on…”
His clear yet mellow voice carried a suppressed emotion. Driven by his deep empathy, he could feel Xu An’s state of mind through the music—the emotions that weren’t originally his own flowed into him through melody and lyrics, resonating deep within his heart.
A fallen genius, buried talent, dimmed starlight.
Past glory gone, his singing unheard, turned away time and again by major music shows—just standing on stage had become a luxury.
Under the blows of reality, he had lost confidence, grown weary of persistence, and questioned whether he should continue walking this path at all.
And so, he wrote “Lose Heart.”
But Lai Yudong knew that Xu An had never truly given up. Beneath that endless despair burned a spark of hope.
If he had truly collapsed, he wouldn’t have signed with another company.
If he had truly lost faith, he wouldn’t have faced the pressure to enter a talent show.
If he had truly given up, he could never have written those high notes bursting with vitality and strength.
“I’m trying to struggle out of swamp!
Nothing can stop me!
I want to fly high——!”
It was both Xu An’s heart—and his own.
From the mire to the sky, he would reach for the stars.
[Oh my god, that note was so high!]
[Yuzu can hit high notes!!?]
[That can’t be his chest voice, right?]
[Who cares if it’s head voice or chest voice—singing this song at all is amazing!]
[Holy crap, I’ve got goosebumps everywhere]
[God, baby, you’ve improved so much!]
[I’m picking up my shattered skull off the floor ahhhh!]
His bright, crystalline voice rang through the air, resounding like it could pierce the clouds.
The explosive high note became the finishing touch of the performance—lifting it to an even greater height.
His slightly trembling hands lowered the microphone. Lai Yudong took a few shallow breaths, the delayed rush of nerves finally catching up to him. His eardrums buzzed in sync with his heartbeat, drowning out the cheers rising from the audience below.
He had hit the high note—and it hadn’t cracked.
It felt as if his very soul had been cleared and opened by that soaring sound.
Facing the camera aimed at him, Lai Yudong lifted his brows and smiled—a confident, radiant smile for his final close-up shot.
He hadn’t let anyone down. He had done it.
The camera then shifted to the third performer, Lin Xiao.
Lai Yudong hurried offstage, his legs weak beneath him. The stage now belonged to the fourth contestant—he had to clear out quickly.
The moment he stepped down, Zhao Yifeng was there to greet him with praise.
“Yuki, that was amazing! You even managed Xu An’s high notes—wait, why are you crying? You didn’t mess up, did you?”
Startled by the sight of Lai Yudong wiping at his eyes, Zhao Yifeng fumbled for the tissues in his pocket, thinking to himself that, sure, he didn’t have perfect pitch—but he would’ve noticed if there’d been any mistake.
Or was this guy crying because he thought he wouldn’t debut?
That couldn’t be it—the crowd’s reaction had been louder for him than for Zhao Yifeng himself. If he didn’t debut, there was no way Lai Yudong wouldn’t.
“Thank you,” Lai Yudong said as he accepted the tissue. “I don’t really know why… maybe because this was the best I’ve ever sung, or maybe because I was thinking about Xu An’s experiences.”
Though his personality meant he’d never been as close to Xu An as Li Xu was, through this song, the distance between them seemed to have lessened.
Music truly was a romantic art form.
“I see.” Zhao Yifeng nodded knowingly, slipping effortlessly into his usual motivational tone. “That’s normal. To move your audience, you have to be moved first yourself. That means you’re already an excellent singer.”
Lai Yudong couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m still a long way from being a real singer.”
As he dabbed at the traces of tears with a tissue, he glanced around and asked curiously, “Aren’t we going back to the waiting room? Or are we supposed to stay until the vocal group’s done?”
“Waiting for you,” Zhao Yifeng said with a shrug. “Everyone else already went to standby. Sitting alone in the rest area feels kind of awkward.”
“You? Awkward?” Lai Yudong teased. “Didn’t seem that way when you swooped in and stole someone’s spot.”
Zhao Yifeng feigned confusion. “Huh? I was just tired after rehearsal and saw an empty seat. I didn’t think that much about it.”
“Caught yourself. I didn’t even say which incident I meant.”
“…”
Lai Yudong chuckled brightly. “Come on, let’s go back to the rest area.”
“You’re really something,” Zhao Yifeng said helplessly. “Good thing there aren’t any cameras here.”
Lai Yudong blinked innocently. “That’s exactly why I brought it up.”
Zhao Yifeng: “…”
No wonder this was the same person who’d tricked him into thinking the phone booth was “therapeutic.”
As the stages finished one after another, more trainees returned to the waiting room. Before long, only Xu An remained to perform from the vocal group.
Naturally, the strongest vocalist was saved for last.
Xu An’s song was titled “Follow Heart.”
[Make way! The main vocal is here to boost the sound quality!]
[Is this a new song premiere?]
[Wait—is it part of the same series as “Lose Heart”?]
[The titles and meanings sound pretty similar.]
[I haven’t heard a new Xu An song in so long /cry]
Under the spotlight, Xu An’s face was illuminated. His eyes were lowered slightly, his expression unreadable.
Remembering the time he had cracked a note on stage, Lai Yudong couldn’t help feeling nervous on his behalf.
He prayed silently—please, not here, not now. Don’t let things begin and end in the same place.
Xu An gripped the handheld mic, slowly lifting his gaze to look straight ahead with unwavering resolve.
His ethereal voice flowed out—gentle yet powerful, like a bird soaring freely through the forest, its song weaving a melody that could move even a bard to tears.
In that moment, everyone seemed to see the genius boy from three years ago—the youngest contestant, overwhelmingly talented, standing proud and radiant as he claimed the championship title of “Hear My Voice.”
He was truly back—back on the stage that belonged to him.
There was no need to prove his skill anymore; the music itself spoke for him. All he needed now was someone to listen.
“Xu An’s vocals really are the strongest here,” Zhao Yifeng said, clapping in admiration. “Too bad it’s only a one-minute performance—I wish we could’ve heard the full version. This song sounds like it’s part of the same series as yours, or maybe like the next chapter?”
“Ah…” Lai Yudong blinked, snapping out of the daze the song had left him in. After a few seconds, he nodded in realization. “I’m not sure, but probably. He wrote mine before he signed up for the show, and this one afterward.”
Zhao Yifeng didn’t hold back his praise. “That’s amazing. Especially since you sang ‘Lose Heart’ before him—it’s like the two of you completed a single, connected performance. Honestly, without your part, it wouldn’t have had the same impact.”
Lai Yudong smiled bashfully. “I’m not at that level yet.”
“Really? I think Xu An would say otherwise.” Zhao Yifeng gave a knowing smile—his instincts as a fellow singer letting him glimpse what Xu An must be feeling. “If he knew you were performing ‘Lose Heart’, I bet he’d be really happy about it.”
“That’s… a different matter,” Lai Yudong murmured.
“Alright, alright,” Zhao Yifeng said with a grin.
Lai Yudong turned his gaze back to the live screen. Watching Xu An’s flawless performance filled him with pure joy—though, like Zhao Yifeng, he couldn’t help but feel a little regretful that he couldn’t hear the full version live.
He wondered whether Li Xu was moved to tears backstage.
I’m sliming everyone