Chapter 96.2: Finals (7)
The dance group’s performance came right after the vocal group’s.
The dance group had the most members—eight in total—and the one Lai Yudong was most worried about was Su Junzhe, because his old problem had flared up again during rehearsal.
In order to present a stage that could fully showcase his individual skill, Su Junzhe had poured a tremendous amount of energy into dance over the past few days, working as desperately as Lai Yudong had during the third public performance period.
The result: one came down with a fever and had to go on an IV drip, while the other’s old back injury relapsed.
If one had to compare, the latter was the more serious.
After the second rehearsal, Su Junzhe rushed to the hospital for a corticosteroid injection. But the shot could only temporarily relieve the pain—once the effect wore off, the symptoms would worsen.
Enduring that terrible condition, he still stepped onto the spotlighted stage as the dance group’s opening act.
Under the camera, he shone brilliantly, his smile radiant and infectious. The label of “perfect idol” clung tightly to him; he never showed even a trace of negativity—he could even swallow pain by sheer force of will.
He was always the shining idol.
[Is Susu okay?]
[A fansite caught Su Junzhe going to the hospital.]
[What’s going on with your “tough-eagle training plan”? Take care of your health, boys.]
[The better Xiao Su dances, the more my heart aches.]
[Baby, you don’t have to push yourself so hard—we’ll vote for you no matter what.]
[This is the first time one minute has ever felt so long.]
Unlike his usual sweet and adorable image, Su Junzhe chose a pure hip-hop style for his performance—more elastic in rhythm and broader in movement than standard boy group choreography, carrying a looseness and explosive energy rarely seen on him before.
In that one-minute solo stage, it was as if he wanted to shatter all labels—to be his truest self, if only for a brief and unrestrained moment.
It wasn’t until the music ended that he returned to the image the audience knew—raising his head toward the camera with a smile as sweet as honey.
“I honestly thought Su Junzhe was going to dance to some cute pop song,” Zhao Yifeng said as he clapped, chatting with the person next to him. “But that choreography was so slick even Bai Xuanhe could’ve pulled it off.”
“Well, it’s the finals. It’s good to try a style you actually like.”
With the live camera right there, Lai Yudong couldn’t say too much. Besides, some things were only his suspicions—with no proof, accusing someone of crafting a fake persona would just make him sound like a bitter villain.
But from how they interacted daily, he could feel that Su Junzhe didn’t really like the brainless “cute and bubbly” image that had been built for him—the contrast between the sweet exterior and something darker underneath was strong.
Maybe it was because of his naturally soft and adorable looks that the company insisted he stick to the cute concept. As a trainee with no connections, he had no say in the company’s decisions.
The problem was, that sugary persona had already taken deep root. Changing it later would be a hassle; that mask might have to stay on for a long time.
Lai Yudong sighed quietly to himself.
He understood that helplessness all too well—he’d forced himself through the same thing in the early days. The difference was, he had more leeway to adjust; his image shift could be explained away like a character’s growth arc, perfectly logical on paper.
But that was Su Junzhe’s choice, and it wasn’t his place to judge.
The second performer to take the stage was Mo Li.
As the group’s ace, he was a jack-of-all-trades—he could fit in anywhere. After weighing his options, he’d chosen the dance group.
[My dear Li!]
[Mo Li should’ve gone to the rap group; the dance group is full of gods.]
[Even though the rap group has fewer members, they’re really strong.]
[I feel like Mo Li’s good at everything, but never the one who grabs attention in any group.]
[Can’t be helped—Teacher Jin’s in this group. Even Xiao Su can’t outshine him.]
Among the remaining performers, aside from the universally acknowledged powerhouse Jin Xiheng, the one who shone most brightly was none other than the guy who’d sworn into the camera—Murong—no, wait, Bai Xuanhe.
Whether it was Lai Yudong’s bad idea that worked or the show simply hadn’t intended to balance the group sizes from the start, no one could say for sure.
Bai Xuanhe’s performance was his specialty: breaking.
The high-difficulty floor moves instantly fired up the crowd. He spun and flipped like a top unbound by gravity, soaring through the air in a blur that made it hard for the audience to keep up.
“B-Boy moves really are cool,” Zhao Yifeng said, completely mesmerized. The title “B-Boy” was something he could never dream of for himself. “He’s that good at breaking? How come I don’t remember him ever doing it before? Did he show this in the first stage?”
“No,” Lai Yudong replied, like a human DVD player rewinding through two months of memories. “He underperformed in the first stage and didn’t get a solo dance test. Ended up in Class C by accident, only made it to Class A during the theme song round.”
“No wonder. Otherwise he’d have shown off long ago.”
“That’s why he kept saying he wanted to join the dance group. I told him to leave evidence, and he actually did.”
“Leave evidence?” Zhao Yifeng, who wasn’t in the White Rose group, looked confused.
Lai Yudong explained, “He said on the livestream that he wanted to be in the dance group. So if he didn’t end up there, it’d mean the show messed with the assignments.”
Zhao Yifeng looked enlightened. “So you thought he was a fool and decided to mess with him on purpose?”
Lai Yudong: “?”
Lai Yudong: “No. He was having fun with it himself.”
Heaven and earth as his witness, he had never teased anyone other than Li Xu!
…At least, he didn’t think he had.
The last to perform was the rap group.
Among the three groups, the rap group had the fewest members—just three: Yu Yizhen, Yin Zizhen, and Li Xu.
Although there were only three of them, their performances each had a distinct style.
Yu Yizhen’s fast-paced, psychedelic trap rap; Yin Zizhen’s laid-back, jazzy flow; and Li Xu’s transition from boom bap to a cappella—each performer showcased their own unique traits, bringing a different color to their solo stages.
With that, the solo performances came to an end.
The trainees hadn’t even had time to rest before staff members came in again to keep the show moving—the next step was to change into their group stage outfits.
Mentor Wu Xihe took the stage to perform, giving the trainees a bit of prep time.
Once she exited, host Fu Hanyu walked onstage with a cue card from the production team, ready to announce some heart-stopping news:
“I’m sure everyone is curious about the real-time rankings.”
[Not curious at all :)]
[Get lost, ranking bait!!!]
[Look on the bright side—if you’re even in the ranking bait zone, it means the show favors you.]
[Let’s see which poor souls ended up there this time.]
“The trainees currently hovering around the debut line—from sixth to ninth place—will now be revealed on the big screen.”
“Please reveal—”
Everyone held their breath.
A few seconds later, four official profile photos and names appeared on the massive screen.
The audience erupted in disbelief.
“Bai Xuanhe, Li Xu, Xu An, Miura Yuki. Their exact order is unknown—the rankings are shifting in real time. Please cast your precious votes for the trainee you support!”
[I can’t take this anymore, 707’s unity is way too painful!!]
[Wait—Yuzu’s in 6–9???!]
[Although we’d already guessed Yuzu would be pushed for votes, seeing this result still makes me want to blow up Sky HQ—I can’t hold it in.]
[Yuzu sixth? Then who’s seventh?]
[Hard to say—Yuzu’s real ranking might still be in the top five, 233.]
[Why is Brother Bai also near the debut line?]
[Hesi retired from the big three stages to focus on voting—Sky’s definitely about to cash in on you all.]
[Sky, you’re ruthless. I’m going to check how to vote on the Meteor chart.]
[Yuzu’s already third on the Meteor chart—why are we still being pushed to vote? Sky, have mercy?]
Lai Yudong, on his way to the waiting area, unexpectedly heard his own name.
He froze for a moment—did it sound like his debut was in danger?
It wasn’t vanity. Based on the three previous ranking releases, he’d estimated his final placing would be fourth or fifth; even sixth felt objectively unlikely.
But he’d perhaps been too complacent.
At the finals, every fandom would be going all out—sure to present their strongest push for the last sprint.
Although at first he’d thought debut impossible and hadn’t held high expectations—taking things round by round as his survival strategy—the little moments along the way made it hard for him to let go.
He’d felt the bittersweet taste of the stage, the shock of the crowd chanting his name, the surprise of climbing the ranks, the preciousness of exchanging feelings with fans…
So many first-time experiences.
If, at the very last moment, he failed to debut—if everything slipped away through his fingers—if the story was destined to end without perfection—then that hollow, dream-shattering sense of loss would surely linger with him for a lifetime.
For him, debuting was no longer just a task assigned by the system.
