Chapter 97: Finals (8)
Lai Yudong returned to the lounge with his teammates. The seating arrangement had changed — they now had to sit according to group divisions, so his new neighbors were Su Junzhe and Jiang Yangfan.
The debut evaluation stage for the first group was [Polar Aurora].
Although Qu Junwei and Cheng Jinghao were in this group — and all their former teammates had become casualties of their “beautiful love story,” with a ton of scenes cut out — the current lineup had many popular contestants. Moreover, Si Jia Entertainment’s main promotional focus was Mo Li, with Qu Junwei only coming second.
Love couldn’t triumph over capital and popularity; the traces of their once mutual affection could only be found in the obscure corners of the edit.
After the practice short film finished playing, the screen switched to the nine contestants standing on stage.
The center position for this group belonged to Mo Li.
Lights, mottled and shifting, streamed down from all sides. The brightness rose and fell, the changing hues resembling a dazzling aurora, immediately pulling the audience into a vivid world — as if the next second they’d arrive in a land of ice and snow, looking up at a magnificent display of radiance.
The costumes matched the theme — bright and striking — though perhaps too flashy.
After watching for a while, Lai Yudong’s eyes started to ache. It felt like a disco ball was hanging right above his head; calling it light pollution wouldn’t be an exaggeration.
Several times, he couldn’t even tell who was in the close-up — just a few brilliant flashes, and the camera had already cut away.
He might actually need a pair of sunglasses.
[This stage is so beautiful!]
[Honest question: are the contestants also the lighting designers?]
[No idea if they look good, because I can’t see them :)]
[I keep hearing Lin Xiao’s voice, but still haven’t found where he is]
[Very atmospheric — truly sky-level production, the stage design is amazing]
[This stage looks expensive]
[Mommy, excuse me, is this a light show?]
The live comments quickly split into two camps over the stage effects, and while the debate went on, the [Vendela] group headed backstage to prepare for their turn.
The VCR began to play.
The practice clips for both groups were more or less the same. Since this was the final, it wasn’t wise to focus on conflicts or personal growth anymore — themes of inspiration and friendship were far more moving and effective at tugging heartstrings. The ultimate goal was simple: to make the audience cry.
But unlike the previous group, whose politeness carried a hint of unfamiliarity, this group was a team of genuine friends.
During practice, everyone was sprawled across the floor of the rehearsal room, exhausted from running the group choreography.
After only a few seconds of rest, the captain, Lai Yudong, slowly got up, pulled a pillow out from a winter jacket tossed in the corner, and handed it to the chocolate-haired boy lying on his stomach.
“Your back hurts, right? It’s better to lie flat. Lying face down isn’t good for your neck.” He crouched down and placed the pillow on the floor. “If you put it under your waist, it’ll feel more comfortable.”
Bai Xuanhe rolled over, squinting for a few seconds to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. “Are you Doraemon or something? Where did you even pull that out from?”
Lai Yudong explained, “I noticed he’s been uncomfortable these past few days, so I thought maybe bringing a pillow would help. I just grabbed one before leaving today.”
“I can’t stop picturing you walking down the street swinging that pillow in your hand,” Bai Xuanhe said in awe. “Yuki, you’re truly the chosen captain.”
“Thanks. I really do need some lower back support; otherwise, lying down feels uncomfortable,” Su Junzhe said, poking the snow-white pillow. “But… isn’t this the one from our dorm? It’ll get dirty on the floor. What will you sleep on tonight?”
Lai Yudong’s gaze drifted aside. “Ah, well, Liang Zhisheng got eliminated, didn’t he…”
Xu An looked up, surprised. “Does Liang Zhisheng know about this?”
“…He’s not here, so of course he doesn’t! Shh—everyone keep it secret, okay? Let’s not have this part aired.”
[And then they actually aired it hahaha]
[Young Yuzu’s life sacrificed for the sake of “program effect”! So cruel!]
[Not only did they air it — Liang Zhisheng saw it!]
[Like watching your cat café barista get caught by your own cat]
[More like feeding a stray cat and getting caught by your pet cat 233]
Amid the lighthearted and cheerful atmosphere, [Vendela] group’s stage began.
The visual contrast between the two groups was striking — this one leaned toward elegance and gentle beauty. Soft lighting spilled across the trainees’ white shirts, giving them a creamy, delicate glow, like the petals of a Vendela rose.
It was like a soothing eye massage for those tortured by light pollution earlier.
Center Qin Xu faced forward alone, while the other eight stood with their backs to the camera in their designated positions. As the music began, they turned around one after another in perfect sync.
Lai Yudong stood in the front row, far left.
He wore a loose, chiffon shirt. The shoulders were cut open to reveal a bit of skin, held in place by two slender crisscrossed straps that kept the opening from slipping with movement.
The sharp-cornered collar folded down, and from the collar extended two ribbons of matching width, tied at the neckline into a layered bow. Two tails trailed from it — one resting over his chest, the other tucked beneath the waistband of his pants.
As he turned, the ribbons floated gracefully through the air, drawing an elegant arc — as if even the heart swayed with their motion.
But the most mesmerizing detail was the pair of gold-rimmed glasses.
The frameless lenses perched lightly on his straight nose; the gold chain linking them was adorned with a few small, lustrous pearls that draped along either side of his neck. The golden frame only amplified his beauty — his face so striking it was impossible to look away.
He lifted his eyes with casual indifference, and his dark green irises gleamed like jade nestled inside a pearl jewelry box — cool, smooth, and crystal clear.
Refined, elegant, and cool — those were the key words for this look.
The live comments went absolutely wild.
[Holy crap holy crap holy crap!!!]
[What is this?! Glasses Yuzu?! I’m taking a bite.]
[Visually attacked by beauty.]
[A flawless face that can pull off literally any style.]
[So that’s why you didn’t wear glasses in the lounge, huh?! Hiding this on purpose!!]
[If a face this gorgeous doesn’t debut, it’ll be a loss to the heavens themselves.]
[Whenever my eyes see Yuzu, they automatically blur out everything else in the background.]
[Yuzu’s position is pure diamond-encrusted perfection.]
[Without this face, half the casual viewers wouldn’t even tune in — not exaggerating.]
It wasn’t like he was hiding it on purpose.
Since he’d put on foundation, Lai Yudong had worried that wearing glasses for too long would leave marks, and when he took them off, there’d be a pale patch — embarrassing.
Besides, he wasn’t used to wearing glasses at all, and this particular chained style was a first for him. During rehearsals, he’d even seriously wondered whether the glasses might fall off mid-performance.
Though Lai Yudong hadn’t yet gotten used to seeing himself in glasses, the reaction to the new look was far more enthusiastic than expected. Screams of his name rang one after another, and even with heavy comment filtering, the barrage kept flooding in.
As long as the fans liked it, that was enough.
If they liked it, he was willing to keep trying new things.
Alongside the surprise, he also felt genuine joy.
As sub-vocalist 3, Lai Yudong didn’t have many solo lines. His part came only after the first chorus — a single line lasting a few seconds. His brief moment in the center passed in a blink, and the rest of the time was spent dancing, moving through formations, and harmonizing.
After Jiang Yangfan finished his two rap lines, Lai Yudong stepped forward together with Qu Xincheng — it was time for their duet segment.
“For you, I bloom and bare my love.”
Lai Yudong turned slightly to the side, raising his hand into the air. His sleeve slipped down with the motion, revealing the clean lines of his wrist — an action that seemed effortless, yet even the position and angle of his fingers had been precisely choreographed.
“Only for you, my heart belongs.”
Qu Xincheng followed with the next line, reaching out to grasp Lai Yudong’s forearm. The tassels on his sleeve swayed along the other’s fabric, sliding down in a soft arc.
Their bodies touched, but their eyes never met — like two white roses brushing past each other in passing bloom.
[Love watching the visual line, please give us more of that]
[These two in one frame are a blessing to my eyes]
[Can’t you two add just a little romantic tension?]
[It’s already a miracle the seaweed duo even got paired, let’s not ask for too much /smoke]
[Qu/Yu: “The camera really loves us.”.jpg]
As the singing section ended, the two released each other’s arms at the same time and moved apart, stepping to opposite sides of the stage.
Song Yanxi and Su Junzhe immediately followed with their own duet, in the same one-line-each format with synchronized gestures.
After four pair segments in a row, the main vocalist, Xu An, stood alone at the back of the stage. Holding the only handheld mic, he sang his solo verse, as if guiding the audience through a romantic, rose-filled dreamscape.
It was a tender love story unfolding in a sea of flowers.
As the final chorus began and everyone sang together, jets of mist and colorful ribbons burst from around the stage.
The camera pulled back for a wide shot; under the lights, the scene shimmered like a hazy, dreamlike paradise.
When the music stopped, the ribbons drifted down through the air.
Everyone froze in their ending pose.
And this time, at last, not a single rogue ribbon landed on Lai Yudong’s face.
He stood at the very edge of the stage, body facing forward, head slightly turned to the right. His raised right hand formed a loose gesture — thumb and forefinger lightly touching, resting almost teasingly against his slightly parted lips.
The camera zoomed in. His gaze shifted downward at a subtle angle, a faint, sidelong glance — the dark green of his eyes deep and unreadable.
[Aaaa how dare Yuzu tempt Mommy like this!]
[Holy sht, that look is so seductive]
[My heart’s already been stolen by Yuzu]
[I’m sorry, but his look and expression scream “emotional con artist”]
[I get it — refined scoundrel energy]
[I love the lighting on the White Rose unit, 1080p Blu-ray perfection]
[Another day of maternal love turning into something else entirely]
[Let me spend money to calm down first]
When the camera cut back to the host, signaling the end of the performance, the members of [Vendela] relaxed all at once, shedding the composed, elegant demeanor from moments before.
It wasn’t just because the stage was over — it was because their journey, for now, had reached its pause.
Barring the upcoming debut group performance, this was their final stage on [Climbing to Stardom].
All that was left was to wait quietly for the results.
Lai Yudong and the others returned to the lounge, where both groups had already gathered.
“During the last performance,” Fu Hanyu said evenly, “there’s been a major shift in the rankings.”
No one knew if he was just bluffing for suspense, or if it was actually true.
“Now, we’ll announce the trainee currently in eighth place.”
“Please reveal—”
Everyone’s eyes locked on the big screen. Some prayed desperately not to hear their own names; others silently wished that this precious spot of hope would belong to them.
The wait stretched endlessly — as long and heavy as a century.
The trainee’s official photo appeared on the big screen.
“Li Xu is currently ranked eighth.”
[They’ve called his name twice in a row — Li Hong’s probably safe for now]
[Not necessarily. If the second call goes to seventh place, then he’s stable]
[Announcing the eighth place like this? Genius move]
[Looks like they’re just hyping Li Xu’s fans, but in reality, it’s also stirring up a few other fandoms – -]
[Wait, why? I don’t get it]
[If they’d announced sixth or seventh, you could roughly tell who moved up or dropped from the previous round — but revealing eighth keeps everyone guessing]
[Exactly, showing eighth and it’s still Li Xu gives the impression that sixth and seventh might be the same ones who got fan-boosted last round]
[Put it this way — can you guarantee Yuzu isn’t sitting somewhere between sixth and ninth right now?]
[Ugh, whatever. Just keep voting. Even if Yuzu’s already top five, we’re pushing for a high-rank debut!]
The flurry of comment analysis made Lai Yudong’s head spin.
Maybe he just didn’t understand the intricate logic of survival show rankings — or maybe his brain had simply stopped working for the moment — but he honestly couldn’t tell whether revealing eighth place now was good or bad news.
He had only one thought.
Could someone please just knock him out and wake him up after all the rankings were announced?
